In the Flesh Ch 35: Dark Paranormal Erotica in Progress. Enjoy!

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It’s Friday! Time for chapter 35 of In The Flesh, in which Susan sees the light.

There are only three more episodes of In The Flesh left, so be sure to mark Fridays on your calendar. You won’t want to miss the exciting ending.

 

In the Flesh  is very dark paranormal erotica. When Susan Innes comes to visit her friend, Annie Rivers, in Chapel House, the deconsecrated church that Annie is renovating into a home, she discovers her outgoing friend changed, reclusive, secretive, and completely enthralled by a mysterious lover, whose presence is always felt, but never seen, a lover whom she claims is god. As her holiday turns into a nightmare, Susan must come to grips with the fact that her friend’s lover is neither imaginary nor is he human, and even worse, he’s turned his wandering eye on Susan, and he won’t be denied his prize. If Susan is to fight an inhuman stalker intent on having her as his own, she’ll need a little inhuman help.

 

 

To read the story in its entirety up to this point, follow these links to

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25 Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33, Part 34. 

 

 

You can also read In The Flesh on Wattpad.  

 

 

In The Flesh Chapter 35

Michael’s groan was pure lust as I took the first deep taste of him, and with the taste of his heart’s blood, Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500for a split second, it wasn’t lust I felt. It was Michael’s agony at my death he was helpless to prevent. It was his anguish at me shutting him out, it was all the pent-up feelings of more lifetimes than I could imagine down through the ages when I only existed in his horrific knowledge of eternity in an instant, the agony of endless ages of waiting only to be denied. Alonso had warned me that there was so much more in the blood than just nourishment and lust, that the knowledge of the whole of a person’s existence was contained in the blood, and even beyond, the history of their people. He told me that a vampire could access such information in that first ravenous sip, but I’d never had the presence of mind to do so before, though I’d quite possibly taken only from people who knew how to shield their own inner workings. Alonso hadn’t yet taught me how to preserve the privacy of the person upon whom I fed, and Michael was suddenly wide open, laid completely bare to me in a rush of information that was heart breaking and terrifying and amazing all at once. There were glimpses of his relationship with the Guardian, there were flashes of him with Magda, there were images that made no sense in a context of anything that had ever been mortal. And then just a suddenly as it flooded my consciousness, it was gone. It was as though a heavy curtain had descended, and what remained was the pleasure of nourishment and lust twinned with the bond that I suddenly realized had not been broken by my death after all.

I acted more on instinct than on any real knowledge of what I did, tearing open the front of my blouse and ripping the bra as easily as I would a sheet of rice paper until my breasts were exposed. I sat up, still straddling him, and opened my own heart’s blood to him with a sharp flick of my nail, pulling him up to me to feed. To my delight, he took what I offered with a swirl of his tongue and an opening of his lips, and then he sucked hard and bit, just as he had when he had given me his mark. With a sharp cry of surprise, he pulled away enough to meet my gaze, lips wet with the sheen of my blood. “It’s still there. My mark.”

“Stronger than ever,” I said, nodding to the wound over his heart. “Because now you wear my mark as 2015-09-04 16.17.13well.” I pulled him back to me and felt the tight delicious, almost painful pull of his lips and nip of his teeth, and it was as though he did the same between my legs. I felt it down there as surely as if his face were pressed between my thighs, as surely as if he fed upon my most intimate self. Careful not to pull away just yet, I lifted my bottom and fumbled open the tight strain of his fly, feeling the hiss of his breath against my breast as I freed him, slid aside the crotch of my panties and guided him home with a deep groan the was a combine effort. And he truly was home as I rode him and he rose up to meet me, kneading and cupping my breasts while he suckled. How could I ever not have realized that he was my heart and my only home?

“Not too much,” I said pulling away, him following me up with a groan of protest. “Too much will make you drunk and I don’t want you drunk. I won’t be done with you for a very long time yet.”

He sealed the wound with a press of his tongue as he’d seen me do and offered an evil chuckle. “Then for your pleasure, I’ll do my best to stay sober, Susan.” With that, he guided me back to him. Again instinct took control with the first taste of him, and I sipped and licked and nipped until his whole pectoral muscle tensed and rose with each breath he took, each breath which now came in heavy gasps and sharp little pants as though he battled for control. His nipple rose tight and dark pink beneath the brush of my chin, and I broke free from my feeding occasionally to give it a worrying lick or a sharp nip just to hear him pant and moan, just to feel him surge inside of me before I returned to his vein.

His cock filled me so completely, and the glide and move of the two of us was so in sync, so deeply connected that time went away, that everything went away but Michael inside me – what I had craved and longed for the length of my own eternity, which seemed desperately long before Michael filled it.

I arched over his body, and with a large hand curled in my tangled hair, he held me tight to the wound at his heart as I took from the nourishing flow of him, all the while undulating and shifting against the powerful rise and fall of him beneath me.

“I won’t go away, Susan, so you best get used to it.” He fisted my hair and pulled me away just enough that I was forced to look up into his deep ocean eyes. “You’re mine. The vampire might be your maker, but I’m the one who waited an eternity for you. I’m the one who’ll feed you. I’m the one who’ll give you what you need. I’m the one who loves you.” He licked the taste of himself from my lips with a possessive tongue.

Then he rolled with me pinning me beneath his massive body, and for the first time I realized just how Graveyard angel 2da8f31cc622c5a47d15ff0c4f1e114abpowerful he was, just how much control he had exerted in our lovemaking before I became a vampire just to keep from hurting me, or even killing me. As though that blood connection had somehow made him aware of my thoughts, he bent and nipped my own wound licking it hard enough to make me squirm with transferred pleasure while he never lost the rhythm, the subtle increase of speed as we drew near our release. “You can’t hurt me, Susan, I promise. At least not physically.”

He lowered his mouth, and took my nipples in turn, cupping and caressing my fullness with both gentleness and strength, and I held onto his arse, feeling the tensing and relaxing of fit, firm buttocks with each thrust. I couldn’t help it. I was unable to resist biting his neck – just a little nip – taking just a sip, intuiting what my feeding on him did to him, as he pressed deeper inside me and the rhythm became frantic, wild with power, filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with physical nourishment. I dug my nails into his back and bit harder and he grunted with some mix of pain and lust. “Oh dear God, Susan, I never want it to end, but I can’t hold back much longer.” His breath was warm and humid against my ear. “I want to know what it feels like to come while I feed you, to know that you possess me as completely as I possess you.”

Words – sometimes words are as powerful as touch; sometimes words are the tipping point, and they were this time. They were enough to send us both over the edge growling and grasping and trembling as though we would shake each other apart or dissolve completely into each other. Perhaps we did both. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I was completely unaware of where my body ended and Michael’s began. He was still hard and I was still fully impaled and happy to remain that way.

He rolled to one side so that his weight wasn’t fully on top of me and fumbled behind him for the duvet from the overturned bed. He offered me a wicked smile as he pulled it free. “Does this make me your familiar?”

“Don’t know,” I replied hooking my leg around him, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere. “I haven’t had that lesson yet.”

“Not sure how I could get much more familiar,” he said giving my breast an enthusiastic knead.

“Me neither, but why don’t we give it our best try, just to be sure you’re familiar enough.”

He had just taken me in a kiss that promised to lead to far more serious things when there was a knock on the door and Michael barely got the duvet pulled over us before Talia shoved her way in ignoring his curse and my little yelp.

2015-06-30 11.27.42“Oh good! You haven’t killed him,” she said with a sunny smile. “I brought food.” She sat a large covered tray on the one sailors trunk that hadn’t been turned over with the bed and gave the room, and then us, a knowing once over. “Alonso figured you’d need it, Michael, if your little scribe hadn’t drained you completely dry. And he asks that I remind you not to linger too much longer before you head for the basement. Dawn will be coming soon.” Then she left, chuckling under her breath.

“That woman’s a pain in the arse,” Michael said, taking the cover from the tray and biting the end off a freshly baked Baggett.

“She’s a good kisser though. I’m just saying,” I said as he gave me the evil eye and shoved half the Baggett into his mouth like a hungry nestling.

“So’s Cook,” he spoke around his efforts to chew. “But that doesn’t mean I want you kissing him.”

“You’ve kissed Cook?” I scooted closer and lifted a lid off a steaming bowl of lamb stew, taking note that even though I used to love lamb stew, it was now like thinking of eating cardboard soaked in water.

He shrugged. “We were both drunk at the time, and he had made a fabulous Beef Wellington for dinner that night. Worthy of at least a good kiss.”

Once Michael had devoured everything on the tray, he ate me for dessert and then I returned the favour. At some point we’d managed to right the mattress, and tangle ourselves in the remaining bedding, but we didn’t quite manage the rest of the bed before Michael took me from behind, me on my knees, hair fisted in his hand like I was the horse and he was reining me under control. It’s quite possible that’s exactly what he was trying to do. It didn’t work. The control part, I mean.

“You kept your strength from me,” I said, when at last we collapsed on the mattress and he pulled me into a spoon position.

dark moon image_xl_6338206“I had no reason to tell you,” he said. “I’ve kept my strength from everyone except Magda. I had to in order to interact safely with humans. You’re all so fragile. Well you were,” he added, then he bit the side of my neck playfully. “Nice to be able to play rough, and even nicer not to have to wait for you to recover.” He stood and offered me his hand. “Come on, let’s get down to the basement and then we’ll pick up where we left off.” He gave his still erect penis a stroke with the other fist to demonstrate.

I gave him a tug and off balanced him back onto the mattress. “I can’t possibly leave without just one more little taste, and maybe one more little fuck. We have time. Besides, the shutters are drawn tight and we’re down behind the bed frame. Alonso’s just being a worry wart. We’ll be fine.” Before he could protest, I straddled him and guide him up inside me, and as he began to thrust and grind beneath me, I opened my vein for him to feed. A long time later we fell against each other in an awkward twin orgasm that had us half off the mattress onto the stone floor before we collapsed.

“Okay,” he mumbled in an intoxicated slur. “It’s off to the basement for you, young lady.” Then he was out cold, with me not far behind him.

Dreams of The fells sparkling in the summer sun roused me drenched in sweat and half smothered beneath the body of a sleeping Angel. My angel, I reminded myself, as the delicious memories of last night came rushing back to me along with the mouthwatering scent of our lovemaking and our blood. I stretched and shoved my way out from under Michael, who mumbled something incomprehensible from his own dream world and gave my nearest breast an unconscious grope before I leaned in and kisses him, and he aimed a half- conscious smacking of lips in my general direction.

“It’s sweltering in here,” I said, noting the sheen of perspiration on his brow. “No wonder I was dreamingIn The Flesh 2 12006311_1476805985954344_6570546160088833292_n of the fells in summer. We need some air.”

“Susan? Susan don’t!”

“Oh don’t worry. I’m not going far,” I called over my shoulder, as I threw open the shutter and flung the windows wide, taking in a breath of fresh fell air I didn’t really need, lifting my face to the cool breeze. As the sunlight struck me full on, a voice inside me all but erupted like the press of my heart against my chest, and something not unlike static electricity prickled over skin. I gasped for breath, for strength, for context as the voice filled every cell of my body. “I may well be your prisoner little Scribe, but I will not be kept in darkness.”

What happened next was over almost before it started. Michael exploded from the bed roaring like a wounded lion, and the next thing I knew, my world went dark, suffocatingly tight, and a heavy weight drove me to the floor with the force of a lorry.

IS Zak Jane Keir Keeping it Real?

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SFWL COVERWhen it comes to being asked That Question, the one that gets asked of erotica writers far more than writers in any other genre, the ‘Have you really done all that stuff you write about?’ question, my answers have included ‘Maybe…’ ‘Well, what do you think?’ and ‘Look, pal, if I’d done all of that I’d probably be dead by now.’

 

Most erotica writers have had sex. Most erotica writers really like sex, and either spend a lot of time having it or thinking about ways in which they would like to have it, and who they would like to have it with. (People who really don’t like sex do not make good erotica writers, especially when they are people who think erotica is both crap and a shortcut to easy money.) Sometimes, we use the sex we’ve had, or the sex we might have, or the sex we want to have with certain individuals as yet impervious to our charms, as the basis for our stories, which is absolutely fine as long as we change the names and physical attributes enough to keep ourselves safe from outrage, hurt feelings or lawsuits. Not only is it ethical to remove identifying details if your starting point is someone you know – or would like to know better – but doing so takes your work where it needs to go: further into the wonderful, fertile, unlimited territory of the author’s imagination.

 

Some of the stories in my new anthology are just a little tiny bit based on things I got up to and things I might like to get up to. Because I run reading slams, that can sometimes make things even more interesting, should there be someone in the audience who recognises himself or herself in what’s being read out. Advice given to anyone new to public speaking often includes a suggestion of picking one member of the audience to look at and telling yourself that you are addressing that one person. I would have to say that if what you are reading is some erotica you have written and it has some particular relevance to a member of the audience then the last thing you want to do is catch that person’s eye when you get to the good bits. You will either go purple in the face with embarrassment or be consumed with such lust that you drop your clipboard and have to press your thighs together tightly. Other listeners may be intrigued and thrilled by the almost palpable erotic tension in the room, or they may just think you are a dipstick who hasn’t prepared your material very well – or that you are drunk. Depending on how much your actual relationship with the person in question varies from the one you have been writing about may also affect how well your performance goes, er, down: if s/he is someone you are seeing/married to/about to consummate a flirtation with then there is a good chance of thrills all round. However, if you have an unrequited crush and the object of your affections turns green and flees the premises, then you will just have to console yourself with the fact that your mortification has made the evening memorable for everyone else.

 

You may be wondering if this is the sort of thing that actually happens at DSW slam nights. My possible answers to that might include ’Maybe’ ‘What do you think?’ and ‘Why don’t you come and find out for yourself?’

 

EXTRACT: The Tops, from Sticky Fingers And Warm Leatherette

 

She sauntered through the crowd, head high, face composed. Her long, light-brown hair was caught up in a high ponytail on the crown of her head; her scarlet latex catsuit gleamed under the lights and her patent leather boots shone just as brightly. She carried a scarlet suede flogger with twelve tails, fastened to her wrist with a loop of plaited black leather, and her make up was still entirely flawless. Pausing for a moment at the far end of the bar, she contemplated getting another vodka, but decided against it. For the moment, she wanted to keep her head clear. Besides, soon enough some slave or other would probably want to endear himself to her with the offer of a drink.

 

In the alcove by the staircase, she saw a beautiful Japanese girl who hadn’t been around for months but was clearly delighted to be here tonight. She was leaning back in her chair, eyes shut and lips slightly parted, her fingers splayed on the table top. Passing a little closer by, Lynsey was able to tell that there was someone kneeling between the other woman’s legs, but couldn’t be sure if it was male or female. Not that it mattered, naturally. She smiled and walked on, silently wishing the pair of them well. House of Sinners was one of the more permissive clubs, and it was definitely one of those nights when people were inclined to go for it. Interesting, really, how the mood of a whole club could vary from month to month: even in the more behave-yourself venues such as the city centre wine bar that hosted Leather&Chain: from time to time there would be a night when there was something in the air and people would keep disappearing off to the loos, all giggly and conspiratorial and coming back with naughty, sated looks on their faces. Lynsey had had her own share of that sort of thing, though she tended to prefer waiting till the end of the night and taking her captive home in a taxi before getting really intimate.

 

She spotted another couple in a corner on the top floor, near the dungeon: this time it was a man sitting back with a blissful expression, and no table to conceal anyone’s view of the girl on her knees in front of him. She was naked, apart from a neat and unadorned set of black leather cuffs, and a matching collar round her slender neck. As Lynsey drew near, the girl raised her head slightly so that she held only the tip of her lover’s impressive tool between her gloss-smeared lips, her tongue presumably working on the little slit in his cock-head, probing and teasing and tantalising in the hope of triggering the mouthfuls of hot spunk she appeared to crave. Her eyes were half-open, but there was a moment where her gaze and Lynsey’s met, and Lynsey had a dizzying flash of imagining herself in that position, naked, on her knees, gobbling a huge cock, maybe fingering herself as she sucked and licked and all-but devoured… She shook her head and moved quickly on.

 

 

About Zak:

Zak Jane Keir is a veteran writer of erotic fiction and occasional ranty blog posts. She also runs Dirty Sexy Words erotica slams in London.

 

 

Find her books here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&text=Zak+Jane+Keir&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=Zak+Jane+Keir&sort=relevancerank

 

 

Find out more about Dirty Sexy Words here:

https://www.facebook.com/DirtySexyWords/

 

 

Naked in the Lakes for a Great Cause!

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No one could follow this blog or my face book page or read very many of my novels without knowing that I adore the English Lake District. My husband and I have been fell walking in Lakeland for nearly eight years now. When I joined a group on Face Book called I Love the Lake District where I met the fabulous Jo Bell. She and some of her friends are getting naked in the Lakes for a great cause, and you don’t have to get naked to help.  Here’s Jo to tell you all about it.

 

Wrapped in banner

 
I hope this idea to raise money would make you smile? I had only ever bought the cheeky Farmers’
Calendars featuring either lady or male farmers with various farming equipment or a tractor strategically placed for the photo but these calendars are from Plymouth in Devon!

I had the initial idea, after a friend had told me that she’d had some photos taken of herself to help to boost her self esteem through seeing herself undressed, so its all her fault! In the summer of 2014, a group of 7 ladies got together and, with the help of a local willing photographer, ventured into Egremont and Ennerdale and got up close and personal with nature! Quite literally!

 

Miss. November

 

I like to call it ‘Naked in the Lakes’ Calendar Girls style and thought it would be a great idea for a
Calendar with a difference rather than just photos of the Lakeland Fells. We are raising money for the Give Us A Break charity as West Cumbria, England, urgently needs a suitable Short Break Centre located nearby to support children with disabilities and their families. Currently a suitable facility does not exist and/or would require extensive travel or financial commitment to access. It is unreasonable to assume that families should continue to struggle on a daily basis, with long waiting lists, driving excessive distances and working through difficult systems to access care.

 

Miss. March

 

 

Calendars are £10 each

PayPal payment to go to  joannabell238@btinternet.com

 

The end of January, we are making a donation from the calendar sales to Give Us A Break.

I’d love to hear what your thoughts are on women getting naked outdoors and would be great for
you to see our results and maybe even join in our next one, if you’re coming up to the Cumbrian Lakes this summer!! I’ve got 70 members wanting to join in our next calendar, so will try not to get us all arrested if there are large groups of naked people roaming through the countryside this summer!!

Thank you for reading and I would love to hear from you, Jo Bell – nakedinthelakes@gmail.com.

Photos taken at Florence Mine, Egremont, Ennerdale Lake, Ehen river and Florence Mine (in banner) xx

 

Looking over banner

Creative Sex

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Writing pen and birds 1_xl_20156020(From the Archives)

 

Sex and creativity are often seen by dictators as subversive activities.

Erica Jong

 

My husband knows I’m always looking for interesting articles about sex. He sent me one the other day about masturbation as a treatment for restless leg syndrome (It’s orgasm that actually seems to help. The means is optional.) This led us to an impromptu discussion of all of the other benefits of sex. Sex is a good sleep aid, sex can help with weight loss, sex can improve skin, hair and nails, just to name a few. The jury, however, is still out on whether sex is an aid or a deterrent to creativity.

For the nay-sayers, abstinence has long been touted as a way to focus sexual energy for creative purposes. On the other hand, a study at the University of Newcastle-on-Tyne and the Open University showed that professional poets and artists had almost twice as many sex partners as other people. The study also showed that the number of sex partners increased as creative output went up. The conclusion drawn was that the more creative you are, the more sex partners you were likely to have.

I’m sure that’s a simplification, but I wonder which came first the sex or the creativity? Is it the creative force that makes us horny, or is it being horny that makes us creative? My guess is that every writer, poet or artist would answer that question differently. However, I don’t think there’s any denying the close connection between the creative force and sexuality. Nor do I think that’s particularly surprising. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Freud was right. It IS all about sex. But what I’m not sure of is that we really understand just what sex is all about.

Yes, the basic biology of it’s obvious, but we humans haven’t had sex simply to procreate in a very long time now. We’ve evolved to want, to expect, even to need more from the sex act than just the next generation. Perhaps that goes hand in hand with the evolution of what civilizes us, what sets us apart from our animal cousins — at least in our own eyes. For humans, many of our basic needs have evolved two meanings. First there is the concrete realm in which we’re born, nurtured, thrive, pass on our genes and die. But we develop another level of meaning when we no longer have to use all of our energy just to survive. When starvation is no longer an issue, food and its preparation and presentation becomes art. When keeping out the cold is no longer an issue, clothing becomes fashion, and magazines tell us how we can be walking galleries for the art of clothing. When finding shelter from the elements is no longer an issue, the very homes we live in become an artistic expression of ourselves. Artistic expression, for us, has become as important as function.

But all of these necessities are concrete. Sex is not. In the days of our ancestor, sex was the magic by which two people become three. Today sex is the magic by which two people become one, or by which one person becomes more herself or himself. Procreation has given way to re-creation, on the one hand, but on the other hand, how can an act that has evolved from the very need to create the next generation be rooted in anything but creativity?

How can the process of creating not be sexual in nature? Writing a story is a penetrative act resulting in something larger, something much more alive than the words on the page, than the idea conceived. That’s heady stuff. That’s the writer in full rut. It’s intimate, it’s messy, it’s rough and tumble, it’s voyeurism and exhibitionism and full-on heat. If it isn’t, then there hardly seems to be a point.america-artist-art-paintings-prints-note-cards-by-howard-chandler-christy-nude-women-reading-approximate-original-size-18x16

That being said, anyone who has had good sex, lingering sex, or even remembers a good teenage feel-up
when time wasn’t an issue, and suddenly seemed no longer to exist, will recall that the end was subsumed in the means, the wonder of the act itself, the amazing intimacy with the other. Any writer or artist knows that experience up close and personal. At some point the creative act itself becomes the sum total of existence. The writer’s world shrinks to and expands out from that act, and the end no longer matters.

So how did I get from masturbation for restless leg syndrome to once more worshiping at the altar of the Divine Creative Sexual Force? Well I suppose it’s all just a part of the journey isn’t it? And besides, where else would I be expected to go with it?

In The Flesh Part 34: Dark Paranormal Romance in Progress. Enjoy!

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In the Flesh 11880534_1463650103936599_545702979581425574_n

It’s Friday! Time for chapter 34 of In The Flesh, in which Susan learns startling things about angels.

There are only a few more episodes of In The Flesh left, so be sure to mark Fridays on your calendar, and hold on to your hats because things are getting wild.

 

In the Flesh  is very dark paranormal erotica. When Susan Innes comes to visit her friend, Annie Rivers, in Chapel House, the deconsecrated church that Annie is renovating into a home, she discovers her outgoing friend changed, reclusive, secretive, and completely enthralled by a mysterious lover, whose presence is always felt, but never seen, a lover whom she claims is god. As her holiday turns into a nightmare, Susan must come to grips with the fact that her friend’s lover is neither imaginary nor is he human, and even worse, he’s turned his wandering eye on Susan, and he won’t be denied his prize. If Susan is to fight an inhuman stalker intent on having her as his own, she’ll need a little inhuman help.

 

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25 Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33. 

 

You can also read In The Flesh on Wattpad.  

 

In The Flesh Chapter 34

“Talia said there was no indication of the Guardian being present when Susan fed from her, and she should be able to sense him if anyone could,” Magda said. “Even Alonso hasn’t been able to discover if he’s there. Certainly no one else who’s fed her felt anything unusual – aside from the obvious bloodletting, that is.”

I stepped back around the corner at the sound of Magda and Michael’s hushed conversation. I knew they were nervous about the fact that we’d had no clear evidence that the plan had worked, that the Guardian had been trapped inside me when I was changed. Since everyone had assured me that he couldn’t be killed, then the only possibility was that he was trapped or that he’d escaped — a possibility that we all feared more and more as each day past without any definite knowledge of his whereabouts. But then again, the truth was that none of us really knew what to expect. I listened in silence as only the dead could, knowing that if it had been Alonso and Talia talking, or even Reese, they would have known I was eavesdropping. Sadly the connection with Michael through his mark seemed not to work any longer. I assumed that was due to my change. Though in all fairness I’d been avoiding him like the plague, and the fear of a repeat of what that linked had allowed last time had prevented either of us from trying to connect, so I listened undetected.

“Is it possible he got away and is laying low until we least expect it?” Michael asked in a whisper I could Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500have never heard when I was mortal.

“I don’t see how he could have,” Magda replied. “If anything, Susan and Alonso’s plan was much better than ours. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

Michael used some very colourful language in response to that. “Do you think that’s why she won’t see me, for fear the Guardian might still use the link between us?” Even in the quiet whisper, I heard the pain in his voice, pain that I knew I’d caused, pain that made me feel like my own heart had been ripped from my chest.

“She won’t see you because you were a fool last time she did. She doesn’t want to hurt you.”

More cursing. “She won’t! She won’t hurt me, but between the damn vampire and his people and you and yours, I can’t get close enough to tell her. I can’t get close enough to apologise.”

“Sorry, but that’s what she wanted. Besides, you know there are way more variables involved now that she’s a vampire, now that there’s been no evidence of the Guardian in over a week. Everyone is playing it safe. You’re at risk too, you know, after what he did to you through your link with her.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe there is no link, not any more. Not now that she’s …”

“Now that she’s dead?”

I don’t know if Michael flinched at Magda’s choice of terminology, but I did. I still couldn’t quite get used to the fact that while my heart most definitely beat, albeit much slower, I didn’t need to breathe. Alonso was teaching me, however, that the living were not comfortable when one did not respire, as he put it. Superfluous respiration was essential in order for a vampire to blend in with the living, so I respired, or at least when I remembered to, I respired. Respiration was only one of a million things I had to learn, unlearn, or relearn. I had to learn to slow my every movement so that it didn’t startle the living, so that I didn’t crash into things, break things, frighten the hell out of people, or seriously injure someone. I had to learn to hold objects gently in order not to crush them. I had to learn to touch things tentatively. I had to learn to move much more awkwardly than I was now actually capable of in order to blend in and not frighten mortals. I had to learn to live in the night and protect myself from the sunlight, and, most terrifying of all, I had to learn to manage the hunger so that I could feed without killing, even if I had to hunt to do it.

It was the learning to be gentle and handle things carefully that tripped me up in my attempt at eavesdropping. As I stepped back into the corner further out of their sight, I accidentally knocked over a small ceramic figurine setting on the edge of one of the many full bookshelves Alonso had liberally located around his home. In High View, one was never more than a few feet from a good selection of books. My reactions had improved to the point that catching the figurine before it hit the floor was no problem. The problem was holding the delicate figure of a horse and rider without crushing it. This I was learning to do, but it didn’t come automatically, and the thing shattered in my hand emitting a loud crack overshadowed by my hissed ‘son of a bitch’ as the shards bit into the flesh of my hand. Both Michael and Magda were on me instantly, reminding me with their own preternatural speed, that they were no more human than I was.

“Jesus! You’re bleeding!” Michael said taking my hand in his.

Try though I might, the fact that Michael was touching me, the fact that his touch was as wonderful as I had remembered, as I had ached for it to be again, I couldn’t take my eyes off the racing of his pulse in the vein of his neck. “Leave it.” I jerked away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. I have to go.” Magda, who never missed anything, already had her mobile out calling Alonso as I turned to flee. But as fast as I was, to my surprise, Michael was faster. He grabbed me by the arm in an effort to pull me back, ignoring Magda’s command to let me go.

“You’re not fine, Susan. It’s a bad cut. It needs tending.”

2015-09-04 16.17.13“I heal fast.” Or at least I hoped I did. “Now let me go.” Truth was the sight of my own blood and Michael’s attention to it both frightened me and aroused the hunger in me, a situation Alonso had warned me to be very careful in. And the crazy thing was I wanted to fuck Michael senseless almost as badly as I wanted to drink his sweet rich Angel blood down in thirsty gulps, almost as badly as I wanted to open the vein above the swell of my breast and fed him from my blood, make him drunk from my blood, drunk with lust for me. My nipples hardened to agonizing points pressing against the cotton of my blouse, and I wanted Michael with an ache that was physical. I wondered if Alonso knew that women could be every bit as possessive and protective of what belonged to us as men could. But we could be a hundred times more vicious if need be.

I shoved him away with such force that he landed with a hard wump up against the stone wall, and the oxygen left his lungs along with more colourful language. Then I turned to run. I barely made it to the stairs before he was on me, grabbing my arm and pulling me back to him with surprising strength. “You’re not going anywhere until we talk.”

I could smell his blood hot and earthy and summer berry sweet racing through his veins; I could smell my own blood already drying from the wound on my hand, now healed, and hunger — both physical and sexual nearly drove me to my knees. I mumbled something about me not being safe, as I elbowed him hard in the ribs, then turned and tore up the stairs with dangerous untested speed, Michael only a hair’s breadth behind me. Over our struggle I could hear Alonso on the phone arguing with Magda. Fucking hell if the man didn’t tell her to leave us alone, to let us sort it out! Dear God, was he out of his mind? How could he tell her that when he knew what it was like, when he’d been where I was and knew the worst?

At the top of the stairs, I shoved my way into the bedroom where I’d stayed before Alonso moved me underground for protection from the sunlight. It was a place I still liked to go after dark, to enjoy its exquisite view of the night sky. “Go away, Michael,” I yelled, slamming the door behind me. “You don’t know what I’m capable of. I nearly killed — ” My words died in my throat with a little yelp as I turned to find him already standing by the bed, hands fisted at his side, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“And you don’t know what I’m capable of,” he replied, moving toward me so fast that even my preternatural vision couldn’t register his motion. He had me in his arms before I could even blink. “You think you’re the only one who struggles with power?” He pushed me against the wall and held me with one arm across my chest while he quite literally ripped his shirt off with the other hand. “I’m an angel, for fuck sake! And mortal or not, I’m still more than a match for any damn vampire. Didn’t your maker tell you that? Or was he just wanting to keep you all to himself?”

“Don’t you blame Alonso for this. The choice was mine to make. He didn’t want to, and you know damn good and well I nearly killed you – would have killed you if …” With a flick of his thumbnail, he opened the wound above his left nipple — with ease this time and, as the blood welled, I completely lost my train of thought as the ripe fruit scent of it overwhelmed my senses. I cried out and fumbled for the doorknob in a desperate attempt to get away, even as he held me firmly.

“You think I can’t handle you? You think you’re too much for me?” He curled his fingers in my hair at the base of my neck and reeled me into a kiss that would have been fatal if I hadn’t already been dead, then he pulled away breathing like he’d been running. “That’s the trouble with you damn vampires, you’re so fucking arrogant.”

I shoved him with enough force to send him careening backwards over the bed and on to the floor behind. “Oh, and you goddamned angel’s are so full of humility!”

“I didn’t say anything about humility.” With terrifying strength, he grabbed the heavy wooden bedframe, an antique that must have weighed as much as a small lorry, and turned it upside down with a loud crash. “Did you ever hear me say anything about humility?”

When I made another run for the door, he tackled me, pinned me on my stomach with my arm up behind my back, me screaming and fighting and bucking until I unseated him just long enough to roll over and crabwalk back toward the door, but before I could gain my footing, he was on me again. He In The Flesh 2 12006311_1476805985954344_6570546160088833292_nstraddled me, wrapped his legs around mine and spread me into Judo hold from which it was no trouble at all to feel his full erection. If that didn’t have my vampire heart racing, the blood running down his bare chest did, and just before he could get a solid judo hold on me, I bucked him off, shoved him back, his head hitting the edge of the upturned bed hard enough to cause a hissed stream of expletives before I straddled him with him cursing and roaring like an angry bear. The instincts of the predator took over even as the scent of our lust nearly overpowered the scent of blood. I ran the flat of my tongue up from the waistband of his jeans following the trail of fresh blood, careful not to miss a single drop as I lapped my way up to the wound. It was a shallow wound, enough to trickle freely without the danger of him bleeding out, enough to make me work for my snack, and it was a surprise to discover that it was just a snack, a very tasty snack, albeit. This was about play. This wasn’t about life and death. Even predators played, didn’t they? With a shock I realized, this was about sex, this was about possession. This was about the balance of power we had to find before we destroyed each other in ways that were far worse than the physical damage we could cause.