Page 36 of Kentucky Nights
It’s the name that falls from his lips as he continues to orgasm. I can’t hear him, but I can see the word forming as he spills his passion, over and over again.
Druscilla.
Druscilla.
Druscilla.
My name is on repeat with every pulse that flexes his cock. A jet of white lands on the side of his mouth, and saliva floods my tongue, wishing I could be the one to lick his mess clean.
I inhale a sharp gasp, covering my mouth with the hand that still carries the scent of my orgasm. Then witness him take his finger, wipe his come clean, and suck it into his mouth.
Oh, god.I moan internally, knowing if he and I ever fell into bed together, it would be explosive.
He lies there on his back, completely spent. If we were together, we could fall asleep, only to wake up to make a mess of each other again.
“Dreaming of things you shouldn’t,” I scold myself, yet don’t remove myself from this telescope.
Kentucky sits up, wiping his chest with his shirt, then tucks himself into his jeans. He leaves the button undone and the zipper down, revealing his happy trail that leads into a groomed brown bush.
Snagging his hat, he places it on top of his head, staring right into the lens as if he can see me on the other side. There’s no way he can see that far, right? That amount of distance with the naked eye is impossible.
He hand walks forward until he is on his knees, gripping the edge of the floorboards. His knuckles turn white, and the pouring rain slams against him in abusive sheets, soaking him.
Dipping his chin, he hides his eyes, but it’s the crooked smile tilting the left side of his lips. He shows a flash of fang that has me staggering backwards and falling onto the couch.
He knew somehow. He knew I was watching him. Embarrassment is a fever taking over my body. I bury my face in my hands, wondering when the exact moment was that he knew I was spying on him. This is so unlike me. I have never acted this way before in my life. Kentucky brings out a side of me that I didn’t know existed. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Damn it, Dru.” I groan in frustration.
All I can do is hope he doesn’t bring this up to talk about. I fan my face again, another brutal heat wave causing my body tobetray me. I have no idea what is going on, but this isn’t summer heat. This isn’t because it’s warm in the house and I need air conditioning. My blood feels hot. There’s a constant sheen of sweat cloaking me from head to toe. My arousal is still high. A pulse stays in the sensitive bundle of my clit, causing more lust to pool in my panties.
I’m not hungry or thirsty. The only thing I find myself wanting to sate my needs is Kentucky.
“He’s a vampire,” I tell myself through clenched teeth. I’m sick of this. I’m tired of feeling like I have no control when it comes to how I want to feel about him.
My mind says one thing, yet my body and heart say another.
“You can’t want him. Remember what Louis did to you, Dru. Remember, they are hunters. Kentucky doesn’t care about you. You’re just a means to an end.” Hearing the words helps ease the fire boiling in my blood, the feverish need lets its strangled hold on me go, and I’m able to breathe.
I stand, waiting to see if the dizziness will cause the room to spin again. My surroundings stay in place, and I let out a breath, relieved I have control of myself. In the last few days, with the chaos of being kidnapped by a vampire and then lusting after one, a demonic possession of my body seems to be the only answer that could make these events have any sense.
Stretching over the faded recliner nestled in the corner, I flip the switch on the wall, and the light comes on, blinding me for a nanosecond. I rub my eyes, blinking away the spots floating around in my vision when I catch sight of the picture that fell off the mantle. It’s lying face down on the emerald, green rug.
“Huh,” I say with curiosity, glancing around the room to see if I missed other photos hanging on the wall when I looked the first time.
There aren’t any.
Whoever is in this picture frame must be very important, and I am too nosy not to know who it is. I’m careful when I pick it up, not wanting to jostle the glass in case it is broken.
I flip the photo over, the polished golden frame shines so bright, I can see my reflection. There is a crack from the upper left corner that travels across to the bottom right, cutting directly in front of the image.
For reasons I can’t explain or understand, my heart fractures when I’m faced with another woman. She’s beautiful too, the kind of beauty that only existed in another time. I can’t tell from how faded the image is, but her hair is blonde or maybe a light red, and her eyebrows are thin, but considering the era, that doesn’t surprise me. Thin brows were the trend for the longest time.
Her eyes are bright, shining with a happiness that matches her delicate smile. She seems kind and gentle. Just by looking at her, I can tell she must have been soft spoken.
A tear drips from my cheek and onto the glass. I wipe it away before it has a chance to get into the crack. I have no idea why I’m crying or why knowing Kentucky loved someone before meeting me bothers me so much. I shouldn’t care that he had a life. He lives for so much longer than a human being. I would be surprised if he didn’t love multiple women throughout the years.
I don’t blame him for that.
