***** SHE BELONGS TO MY ENEMY. I WON'T STOP UNTIL SHE'S MINE. I'm the ultimate predator. I live by a code. Hunt or be hunted. Kill or be killed. Then I meet her. The second I catch her scent, I know she was meant for me. She was born to wear my mark, and I was born to protect her. She belonged to my enemy until I took her. He wants her back. He'll wage war to get her, but no one's taking her from me. She's mine, and I'm not letting her go. ***** ***** Grizz
FUCKING TWISTED VAMPIRES.
Toxic, the vampires' BDSM club, is half lounge, half medieval dungeon: all heavy wooden furniture, red velvet, and dark corners a guy can get lost in. At one end, a small bar serves only top shelf liquor and rare wine. Glasses clink, a civilized sound that will soon be drowned out by the darker ones coming from the dungeon.
Above our heads, music starts to pulse, throbbing through the ceiling. Not long now before couples start to descend from the nightclub on the first floor.
I thread my way through the stations, careful not to touch any of the implements of torture, the custom-built furniture that looms like nightmarish monsters in the dim light. The sight of spanking benches and St. Andrew's crosses is enough to make a submissive quake. Pant with desire. Makes no damn sense to me, but I watch it happen every night.
I wait in the shadows as the first of them enter, pairs of people slipping down the stairs. Some head straight for their favorite area or private alcove, others freeze at the foot of the stairs, staring into the dungeon with a mixture of fear and desire.
The vampires keep it dark down here, maybe to hide what they are. That might work on frail human senses, but I smell 'em at every turn. Here's one tying a lovely blonde to the wall. There's another seated in the lounge with a slender man on his lap. The vampire whispers in his submissive's ear and the man's eyes grow wide, locked on a lighted display of implements. Torture tools, I call them, even though the submissives seem to love them. Hell, arousal pours off the male sub as his vampire master tugs him to a spanking bench. The human can't wait to get his ass smacked.
I don't get it. It's a mystery to me, a mating ritual that makes no sense.
The vampire snaps his fingers and a lovely redheaded woman joins the male couple. She goes to the wall and selects a black flogger before returning to the vampire who's making a big show of tying his partner down. The redhead is a little slip of a thing wearing a skimpy white robe, her white thong clearly visible under the thin fabric. A white leather collar is buckled around her neck. Head bowed, she offers the flogger to her master, holding a serving pose for as long as it takes for him to grab it. At his dismissive gesture, she retreats to wait for his next order. A few people gather to watch the vampire flog his male sub, but I only want to watch the redhead. A breeze stirs in the club, cool air blowing from the air conditioning vents. The little redhead's skin breaks out in goosebumps and her nipples harden. She's cold, dammit. I don't know why I care, but I do.
I don't get the point of all this pomp and ceremony. It's the worst sort of foreplay, unnecessary and complicated. No wonder the vampires love it. Half of these fuckers grew up in the Victorian era.
Now the redhead, I get the appeal of her. She's got a delicate spray of freckles across her face, and bare feet. She stands on the edge of the scene, quiet and unobtrusive as her master scenes with another. If I was her master, I wouldn't ignore her. I sure as hell wouldn't scene with another. I'd keep her close, tie her up until she knew she belonged to me. Train her to greet me, tug me to the couch with eager hands, get on her knees between my feet and give me a proper welcome.
And now my dick is hard. I turn away from the redhead. Watching her riles up my bear, and I need a cool head tonight. I took this gig because it's low key, but more importantly, it gets me closer to my ultimate prey.
My heavy boots beat a familiar rhythm as I make my rounds of the club. I can move silently, but better that they see a big lumbering oaf, a bear employed by vampires, a shifter servant of the king. Most couples ignore me. This vampire BDSM club takes some getting used to, but it's quiet, unlike the shifter Fight Club where I used to work. Here, most patrons are polite and do their thing.
A blonde slinks by, naked but for a tiny red lace thong and black collar. There's a leash hanging from her collar, between her bare breasts. She smiles as she passes me, flicking the leash over her shoulder so it hangs between the reddened globes of her perfect ass.
Yep, bouncing at the vampire BDSM club is a nice gig if you can get it. Some nights are nicer than others.
I round the corner and there she is-the little redhead-naked with her arms stretched over her head. The vampire demonstrates some sort of rope bondage thing, using the redhead sub as his model. Her white robe pooled at her feet, she obeys with a calm, almost blissed out expression. There's a smattering of freckles on her arms and shoulders. Her chest rises and falls with deep even breaths as the rope constricts her chest. Her eyelashes flutter.
The vampire finishes the demonstration and unties the girl, directing her to put away the rope and sending her off with a smack on her ass. A growl lodges in my throat. Fuck, I've been standing here staring for far too long.
"Like what you see, shifter?" a vampire lisps at my side. "Maybe you should try it."
I wait until the redhead disappears into a private alcove before murmuring to my unwanted conversation partner, "Sure, Benny. How 'bout on your dead body?"
The vampire Benny draws his teeth back, showing fangs. "The name's Benedict."
"I know." I tilt my head to the side, already bored. Benedict is one of the younger vampires, turned only a century ago, pale and thin like he's dying of fucking consumption. Maybe he was when he was turned. "I gave you a nickname. If I was unfortunate enough to be named Benedict, I'd fucking embrace an alternative."