How to Discipline Your Vampire

CHAPTER ONE

            Cerise

            The band’s performance raged to a climax as I felt around in my bag for the handcuffs.

            I hummed with satisfaction when my fingers finally made contact, my mind soothed by the feel of cold metal. I knew the cuffs were in there, but sometimes my compulsions needed to be sated before I made my move.

            My ears throbbed from the barrage of guitar solos, and I knew they would be ringing later, but I didn’t care. Eightiesfest played in Portsmouth every year to sellout crowds, and this year’s lineup was the best yet—only half the rockers had been on reality TV shows or in rehab, so the music was pure and unadulterated. I had been listening to my retro playlist for weeks in preparation for tonight’s pleasure.

            I felt a vibration in my back pocket, signaling an incoming text. I smirked and slid out the phone, anticipating what was about to go down.

            DRESSING ROOM THREE, it read.

            I pushed my way through the crowd and headed toward security. The sweaty man crossed his meaty arms in front of himself, guarding his precious backstage. I flashed my all-access pass, and the stoic guard waved me through with a bored look on his face.

            The musty hallway looked empty, probably because the opening act hadn’t finished yet. There would be forty minutes until the headliner’s performance.

            Just enough time.

            I looked over my shoulder and pushed through the door of dressing room three.

            The room smelled like hairspray, sweat, and whiskey.

            Perfect, so far.

            It was carefully trashed—empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s littered the floor, cigarette smoke diffused throughout the room, and a few electric signs illuminated Alex’s muscular pecs in coordinating neon colors. He was sprawled out on the leather couch, palming his crotch in preparation for my clandestine visit.

            “Hey, Blondie,” he cooed.

            I popped my grape bubblegum loudly and pulled off my ID, spinning it on my finger. “So,” I began, scrunching my crispy frizz and fluffing my temporarily outrageous bangs, “your band won’t be wondering where you are?” I reached behind me and bolted the door with a loud thunk.

            He took a long pull from the nearly empty whiskey bottle at his side and grimaced from the burn. “I’ve got it covered, you bodacious babe,” he said, twirling an errant drumstick clumsily between his fingers.

            “Watch your grip,” I replied, commenting on the poor handling of his drumstick. I strode confidently toward the couch where he was perched and straddled him. “You ready?”

            He tossed his head back and bit his smirking, full bottom lip. “What are you going to do to me? Damn, you look . . . tubular,” he moaned, grinding his leather pants into my miniskirt, trying to properly illustrate the effect I was having on him. I spat out my gum with a wet squirt.

            My hot-pink heels dug into the leather couch as I appraised him. He was very attractive—tan skin, big brown eyes, and a very muscular body. My mind was already filing away all the little details of the scene.

            “Wouldn’t you like to know. For now, I’d like you and that radical body to stay perfectly still,” I murmured, snatching my handcuffs and flogger from my bag and placing them within arm’s reach. I pulled him close. “Kiss me.”

            He licked his lips as I leaned in and tongued his mouth. It was wet and sharp tasting from the alcohol, but soft and pliant enough to keep me turned on. He groaned and craned backward, stretching his arms above his head submissively.

            I sneered. “Didn’t I tell you not to move?”

            His face fell immediately. “I . . . ,” he stammered. “I just saw the handcuffs and thought . . .”