How to Discipline Your Vampire(33)

            I pulled up a seat, puzzled. “Pesto?” I asked. “I don’t have pesto in the fridge.”

            He gestured to the food processor in the sink. “I made it. You had a nice bundle of basil, along with some cheese, olive oil, and pine nuts.”

            Holy Jamie Oliver without the lisp—the man made me homemade pesto? Oh, and he fucked the bejeezus out of me, too.

            “You are a master of improvisation. Good,” I said. “Please, sit.”

            He complied, and watched me eat. Normally that would be quite unnerving, but his attention was fixed solely on giving me what I wanted. And right now, I wanted food.

            I savored the first bite. Delicious.

            “Is the meal to your liking?” he asked. The oven beeped and he got up. “I had taken a number of cooking classes when I lived in Tuscany with my parents, so I hope I learned enough.”

            “Seriously? Yes, it’s perfect,” I said after swallowing. “But what’s in the oven?”

            He pulled out a tray. “I made garlic bread.”

            Well, there goes the “he’s really a vampire” theory again, I thought. Garlic bread = dead vampire, right? Maybe I should tease him with holy water ice cubes on his nips just to make sure.

            I was somewhat deflated by this revelation, then realized I was insane for even considering it. “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Really, you’re so . . . I don’t know . . . worldly. Artsy. I don’t know.”

            He shrugged. “I like to learn things. And art comes in many forms. I guess I just wanted to master them all.”

            “Tell me about that music,” I said between bites.

            “The piece I played today and on the CD?” he asked, smirking, eyes lowered. “That’s an original composition, Mistress Cherry. Did you enjoy it?”

            I nodded, mouth full and eyes wide. Original?

            “I have been playing the piano for a very long time. I actually prefer guitar, though. I eventually tired of playing the same composers over and over, so whenever I’m inspired, I write music myself.” He ran his fingers across the kitchen table as though there were invisible keys. “I find it soothing. Music is something I truly enjoy.”

            I grabbed a piece of garlic bread and motioned for him to go on. All that orgasming made me hungry. “What do you typically listen to?”

            “As far as classical composers go, I enjoy Mozart. When it comes to modern stuff, I—” He stopped, and looked sheepish.

            I swallowed. “Come on,” I said. “Don’t be shy. After scenes, I’d like you to really be yourself. You make me curious.”

            He laughed and covered his face. “Thank you, Mistress. Honestly, I know I’ll sound like a fifteen-year-old kid, but I really love punk. Especially Believers Never Die.”

            And I saw God for the second time today. “They are . . . my favorite band . . . of all time,” I said, then became skeptical. “Did you look at my CD collection while you were getting ready, or do you really enjoy them?” I narrowed my eyes menacingly.

            He looked shocked, but eager to continue. “No—I genuinely love them. Now, I get in this debate with my niece Breanna all the time—do you think their best work was before or after they got their new drummer? I actually have a soft spot for their most recent CD. Breanna thinks I’m crazy.”

            He really does listen to them. “I love A Madness Shared by Two. It was totally panned by critics and hard-core fans, but I think it has some of their best stuff ever.”