Short Smut(22)

“So, the myths are true?”

“Some of them,” he said. “Put a stake through my heart, and I'd laugh. At my age, I would need to be cut to pieces and burned.”

I frowned at the thought of someone hurting my master. “Who would do such an awful thing?”

“Someone who protested me eating a woman once a week,” he replied, flashing me his brilliant smile.

“Oh.” I thought about my own life flowing into him. “But, wolves eat deer, is it really that different?”

“It’s been several millennium since I made a vampire, but I don’t recall him having such blind devotion to my kind the next day.” Jamie laughed. “He spent years protesting my diet.”

As he spoke, I realized I had justified my own murder. These thoughts, these feelings, were not my own. My chest tightened in a panic attack.

Jamie squeezed my knee. “Hey, Maria, take a deep breath. These feelings will fade. You’re newly made.” I squirmed in the seat as his hand crept up my thigh. “Most new vampires like to sit in their masters’ laps, gazing into their eyes.”

“What about the man you turned?”

“Darius?” he said. “He was no different, it was awkward. But, either I turned him, or I let him die. He’d been a friend to me in a foreign city. He was loyal, and he kept my secrets.”

“Will I meet him?”

“I imagine he’ll be waiting up for me.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called. Then again, I’ve stayed out all night before.”

A silence settled over us. Jamie was smiling about something, and I was happy he was happy. He mentioned neophyte vampires curling up in their masters’ laps, and I wanted to lay my head down on his so I could smell his rich cologne and feel his heat.

He lifted his arm, and I lay down, my nose pressed against his cock.

“Do you mind if I listen to music?” he asked, and his lap vibrated as he spoke.

“No, of course not.” I couldn’t imagine why he would ask. What else would I want to listen to besides his music? An orchestra cued and a woman started singing. “You listen to opera?”

“Yes,” he said. “La Traviata, it’s about a fallen woman. It starts out joyous, at a party, and ends with our heroine’s tragic death. We should be home by then.” He stroked my hair, and I nuzzled his crotch. With a laugh he pushed me away. “I know stories may have led you to believe I could concentrate on driving while you blew me, but I assure you Maria, your head in my lap is all the distraction I can bear.”

I relaxed, content to have his hand moving over me.

“You’re the generally good-natured sort, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You know, if I hadn’t been so hungry, I would have just kissed your cheek and left,” he said. “Sometimes I feel sorry for the girls I eat, and you were one of them.”

“Thank you, master.” I rubbed my cheek on his legs, glowing with the thought he liked me enough to feel bad about killing me. “God, I feel like a puppy.”

He ruffled my hair. “You do. Your emotions are pure adoration,” he said. “Don’t worry, my precious vermin, we’ll argue, and kiss and make up.”

After that, I drifted off to the swelling opera and his finger moving over my brow.

“Wake up Maria, we’re home.”

I sat up and yawned, stretching. My body was different, less clumsy. I sat, wiggling my fingers, until Jamie opened my door. We had pulled up outside a weathered stone mansion. Jamie took my arm as we strode up the front stairs. The Breakers, a summer home I toured, sprang to mind. My six year-old self had been enchanted by the place, and I begged my parents to take us there again.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “The Surf, my very own scaled down version of the Vanderbilt home. The only thing it lacks is a charming view of the sea.”

The heavy front doors were made of dark carved wood. Jamie opened them with a gentle tug. My childhood memories of a white iced palace solidified into cream columns and a red carpet leading up a great stair. A man sat on the bottom steps, reading.

“Jafari, you’re...” The man dropped his book and gaped at us.

“Darius, Maria,” Jamie said gesturing, “Maria, Darius. I’m tired. Park the car for me, will you?” He threw Darius the keys and led me up the stairs.

I heard the man mumble, “He brought home a woman. I wouldn’t have expected that in a million years.”

I felt awkward standing beside this majestic vampire, guided by his firm hand. As we approached his bedroom—I had no doubt his door was the one with the African art standing outside—I began to tremble. What if I didn’t please him? What if it was the thrill of the hunt that had made him like me?