How to Discipline Your Vampire (20 page)

He came back in the house looking slightly happier than when he left.

“William, I want to talk.”

His shoulders slumped. “I just spent the last hour trying to get over our last conversation, Cerise. I’m not ready for another letdown.”

I took his chin in my fingers. “I want to compromise.”

He tensed and averted his eyes from me. “I don’t really see how there can be a compromise.”

“Hear me out?” I asked. “If you won’t, I’ll strap you to the bed and nag in your ear until you listen.”

He laughed and pulled me down onto the couch. “Fine,” he chuckled. “Although the alternative kind of sounds like fun.”

“Listen. I can’t be someone I’m not, so don’t push me. I’ll move forward at my own pace. Maybe I am a little interested in being like you, but it’s not something I’m ready to even wrap my head around right now. As a concession, how about you move in with me?” I said, saying the words before I really thought them out. I was busted. Bizzy had already started picking out china patterns for us.

His eyes widened comically.

“It’s just for convenience, you know? We’d be together more, and I do want that. Plus, I mean, you don’t, like,
need
anything. No sleeping, no eating, so you don’t have to . . . I don’t know. Just get your clothes, and, um, toiletries, and put them here,” I said, brow furrowed, rambling like an asshole.

Did I just seriously ask him to move in with me?

Do you even need a toothbrush?
I wondered randomly.

He took my hand and smirked before answering. “If you think inviting me to move in with you is the best way to throw me off your scent, you’re wrong. But then again, this is a significant step. Thank you,” he said.

“You still need to admit that at least part of this desire to change me is about pain.” I began the talk I was dreading worse than the one about
love
. “William, no offense, but it’s really clear that we have an imbalance of power in our relationship,” I said, voice on the verge of quavering. “As a Domme, I have needs,” I said, and as soon as the words left my mouth, his face fell.

I tried to recover. “Needs that include physically dominating you, not just asking you to keep your hands still, or to test your restraint.” He perked up, albeit slightly. “I have thought once or twice about becoming a vampire and being stronger, but for now I do want to tie you up so tight that you can’t move, and then spank the hell out of you. I want you to struggle and mean it. And, the worst part is, I know you want that, too. There
has
to be a part of you that’s slightly disappointed that I can’t bring you pain with pleasure. I read your journals—I know what you want.”

His face told me he agreed, but his words betrayed that sentiment. “I swear to you, as appealing as all that sounds, it’s not why I would want you to change. I’m still not sure if I want you to. It would be painful, but then again, if it would give you satisfaction . . .”

I groaned. “I’m satisfied, don’t get me wrong, but really—think about it.
You have all the power in the relationship,
” I said glumly. It was hard to say, but my pride pushed my fears aside and I said it.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, got out of his chair, and knelt at my feet. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said this whole time? Have you read a word I’ve written?” His voice trembled with fervor. “From the moment we met, you have had me in your grasp.” He clutched my face in his hands, almost roughly. “
You
are the one with the power. The power to grant me happiness or punish me with loneliness. I think only about you. My every move is motivated by how you will react. You’re virtually God to me, Mistress.” His body quaked with obsession. He shook his head in dismay, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t you see the power you have over me? My strength is nothing in comparison to the hold you have.” He let go of me, and backed away, slowly, embarrassed by his outburst.

I tried to process everything he had said. It did seem true—I had a hold over him that was perhaps stronger than shackles and more torturous than a good flogging. But that didn’t change what I wanted.

“So this isn’t about being squeamish about years down the line, serving a Domme who’s sixty-five years old? I’m sure you won’t be as thrilled with my boobs when they’re sagging,” I said with a pout. As silly as it sounded, I meant it. I was self-conscious about aging.

He laughed.

“I love every inch of your body,” he purred. “Plus, I can age along with you.”

“What about when I’m
eighty-seven
and I still won’t change for you?” I asked smugly. Surely he wouldn’t have an answer for that.

“Then I’ll serve you your toast and tea—while naked, of course—and make sure you’re satisfied well into your later years. You’ll be the happiest octogenarian on earth.” He smiled broadly. He stopped to think, then added, “I’m thrilled you’d want me that long.” His smile nearly reached his ears.

I shrugged. “I did just invite you to live with me,” I said truthfully.

His face was peaceful. “You did, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “Shall I go get my things?” he asked.

I nodded. “Anything else you’d like to add, since we’re in catharsis mode?”

“Let’s start really living your life. I want you to go after a full-time teaching position, because you talk about it in your sleep you want it so bad. Let’s clean up your past, the things you talk about that are holding you back. I think you may end up looking at my offer differently,” he said, voice nearly bursting with affection.

I blushed, embarrassed. I thought I was doing such a good job at keeping the skeletons neatly arranged in my closet, but in reality they were bursting out when I looked away.

“Ready to shake on that, Gentry?” I asked, reluctant.

He positively glowed. “Yes, Mistress,” he said, pulling me in for a soft kiss. “You know I have a hard time telling you no.”

“I like giving you a hard time,” I said, giving him a swift spank to the bum. “Fresh boy. Go get your things.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cerise

He plopped the single box in the center of my living room floor.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “That’s it.”

“You own an entire complex down the Banke and all you’re bringing here is this single box of stuff? No artwork or anything?”

“Breanna and Steven can keep the rest. I don’t hang on to things long. If I had kept everything I had ever bought, I’d need a home the size of Buckingham Palace. All I need is right here,” he said, taking my hand and planting a soft, cool kiss on my wrist. “And as for the art, I’d like to maybe make the guest room into a studio, considering how often you inspire me.”

I walked up to the box out of curiosity and sifted around. A few clothes, some books, and a garden spade. I held that last item up. “Planning on digging up the petunias?”

He laughed and took it from me carefully. “That is the only item I have that belonged to my parents,” he explained gently. “They were very simple people. Maybe that’s why I don’t need more than a box of worldly goods.”

“I thought your parents were Renaissance vampires. Paintings, extravagance, and the like. Or did they have some crazy over-the-top garden?”

“My biological parents were farmers,” he said, fingering the garden tool with reverence. “They sold me to vampires.”

I clamped my mouth with my hand and sunk down to the couch, horrified by this revelation. And horrified at his reaction to it. “How,” I asked, eyes watering, “how can you speak of them kindly after they did something like that?”

His gaze clouded and his expression was unreadable. “They were only looking out for me,” he explained. “It was the beginning of the Great Depression, and caring for a precocious—and ravenous—five-year-old boy was too much of a burden. And nothing was left of their farms but dust.”

I shook my head. “But to sell you to vampires!?”

“I spoke too strongly. A rich couple passed them one day. My parents were on the side of the road, begging for food for me. The couple explained how they were unable to have a child of their own, and despite all the luxuries the world had provided them, the only thing they wanted was impossible.”

“Which was true,” I whispered, understanding.

“My parents thought it was in my best interest,” he said, eyes downcast. “Here were wealthy people who could take care of me. Who wouldn’t let me starve. Who would love me.”

I gripped his hand. “They didn’t hurt you, did they? The vampires?”

“They never fed from me,” he said softly, “but the restraint was quite difficult. They loved me from afar. We never cuddled like most parents and children do. I was never kissed for getting high marks at school. But they did give me a great deal. They gave me a world-class education, trotting the globe in search of the finest things in life. They gave me companionship, which was what they always wanted. And they gave me this,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Eternal youth. Undeath.”

“You were never held?” I asked, running my hands up his arms.

“Not until you.”

I examined his face, searching for more than what he told me. “Do you love them or hate them?”

He sighed and paused for a long time. “I love that they saved my parents from a life of poverty, and saved me from painful starvation. I love the intellectual gifts they gave me, and the support I needed during my young life. But once they changed me when I was fifteen, that was when I began to hate them.”

I sat back and exhaled. I was fifteen when I started to hate my parents, too. My too-strict father and the milquetoast mother he scared away. Who sends a Christmas card every year in smaller and smaller writing that I worried she’d disappear one day. Not that I saw her.

“I’m sorry this subject matter is unsettling,” William said with a wave of his hands. “I shouldn’t have said so much.”

“No,” I protested. “It’s just reminding me that I haven’t talked to my mom in a long time.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“I just want ice cream,” I said, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “But I do want to hear the rest of this story, so sit tight.”

A hefty carton of salted caramel and fudge ripple sat on the freezer shelf, begging me to drown my sorrows in cold sweetness.
Maybe that was why I liked William so much,
I mused.
Cold and sweet like ice cream.

I pulled him down to the couch with me and prompted him to continue. “What did they do when you were fifteen?”

“They turned me into a killer. They were very traditional vampires, my parents. I always knew what was going on in the lower chambers of my house when I slept in my four-poster bed. I knew they fed off the humans who came inside and never left. And when they changed me, they taught me to do as they did—feed from the living, so I could continue to exist.”

“But you don’t do that now,” I replied. “You’re . . . progressive.”

He swirled his finger in the bowl and held a creamy finger to my mouth. “See how you opened for it? Because you craved that taste.”

I giggled.

“It’s not exactly the same, but close. I wanted it. For a while, I drank from humans because my thirst compelled me to. I wasn’t old enough or wise enough to learn self-restraint while feeding. And the humans they provided were untrained in vampire feedings. In my coven we train and feed from willing donors, like Harvey. They learn to stay still, make no sudden movements, and slow their breathing. When you’re a new vampire, you can break a neck as easily as a twig on a dry tree. You can siphon the life from a person before they even know what’s happening. I did what my nature told me to.”

I nodded. “I know teenagers. They aren’t very good with self-restraint. I get it.”

He stroked my hair. “You’re too willing to forgive. I killed, Cerise. And then I left. I found other vampires who existed through donors and other nontraditional means, and that was that.”

I was mesmerized by his story, but had to know more. “Do you ever see them?”

“Occasionally I’ll visit—they’re normally in France, where they’re from. They are always happy to see me, but never satisfied with my lifestyle.”

I nodded. “So, you feed on only Harvey and others like him?”

He froze. “Not exactly, Cerise.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my breath hitching in my chest.

He took my hand back and looked at my face with fear. “Please, don’t judge me too harshly for this.”

“You’re home,” I said simply. “You shouldn’t fear anything you say here.”

He continued, stiltedly but determined to explain. “Harvey isn’t enough for Breanna, Steven, and myself. For this reason, I often feed at the nursing homes. I use IVs on the terminal patients and order blood supplies from the local hospitals.”

I made no sound. I simply listened.

“The folks there love me. Even the ones with severe dementia, who have seen me countless times and never remember my face. Those are the ones I visit in the night. I please them with my presence and my eager ear, and when they fall asleep, I slip in the needle so gently they don’t even feel it. They get an extra vitamin in the morning, per Nurse Breanna’s orders, and they don’t remember what happened.” He turned away from me.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be ashamed of that.”

He looked back at me. “I’m dealing with it. We don’t have to be bad.”

“I know, William. You are a good soul. You could be out there killing people, instead—”

He interrupted me. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse; I prey on the weak and vulnerable. I siphon blood from old people and drink it out of little pouches. Even for a vampire, I’m a coward.”

“You’re a miracle,” I said, the reality of
my
nature hitting me in the face. “And I’m a woman who uses you. I’m the coward.”

“Wrong again,” he said, coming closer to me and whispering into my hair. “You’ve given me something to live for.” We kissed, and I pulled away, realizing the depth of his fears.

The fact that he never got the love he needed.

The fact that he used people.

“Is this why you’re a submissive?”

He nodded, mouth stiff. “I don’t deserve you.” His body trembled slightly, and the words sprung from his lips, as though his heart couldn’t contain them any longer. “I love you. I love you so much,” he said, nearly gasping for air. He ran his thumb down my cheek, and I kissed his fingers when they reached my mouth.

Words failed me. I didn’t know what to say—hell, I didn’t even know what to think. I was giving him the punishment he wanted, but I disagreed with his reasonings. He wanted affection tinged with retaliation for what he had done.
Right now,
I realized,
he should have something else.

He should have more.

“Then,” I said, trying to express my emotions and confusion to him, the man who had just laid bare his soul to me. “Let’s make love,” I said, searching for what he really needed, but what I couldn’t give. “Just us. No rules,” I whispered, my body reacting to being so close to him. “No scenes, no props,” I continued, staring into his eyes. His breath caught visibly in his throat.

“Are you sure?” he asked, unsure. He ran his hands skittishly through his hair. “I . . . I don’t know how.”

“Of course you do. Use your feelings for your instincts, not your desire for punishment. Don’t just give,” I explained, gripping his shirt in my hands. “But take, too.”

Wordlessly, William scooped me into his arms and took me into our bed as his lover and equal.

We undressed each other slowly, renewed thrill in the revelation of bare skin. Each article of clothing fell off with meaning, and I soaked in the electricity of the moment.

I took my time tasting his body as each new expanse of flesh became visible. Tight forearms. The hollow of his hips where his pants sat. Somehow, I didn’t know how it was possible, I found more parts of him to enjoy. The smooth muscles between his back and chest. The dimples where his lower back met his behind. And my God, the man had positively elegant ankles.

William took his time with me as well, and more confidently than usual. I liked it. When we kissed, I felt his strong, corded arms press me roughly to him. He wanted me like this, and I was so proud of him for it. And, more significantly, he tore—
tore
—my panties off. This was indeed a man—virile, strong, and territorial. His body was designed for me alone. My match, my partner. From his eyes I knew: All he would ever want and desire hinged upon me.

And I gave myself to him fully. He entered me with desperation, but not out of weakness—out of strength of feeling. I understood him now. With every stroke of his hands, and with every thrust of his hips, William showed me what it was to make love. What it was to be someone’s everything. I clung to his body, arms and legs both clutching him with need. I buried my head in the crook of his neck as he took me over and over, countless ways, in innumerable positions and pleasures.

No words. Grunts, gasps, sighs, whimpers. The only words mates needed for each other in the heat of love.

I was moved by him tonight. His gentle strength. His burningly cold, silken touch. His fearful and yet courageous honesty. As we lay together after our hours-long tryst, I marveled at him. He was a wonder.

“What are you thinking?” he asked after a while, watching me watch him.

I ran my fingers along his motionless mouth, touching his smooth lips. “That was my first time,” I said sleepily. “Making love.”

He smiled into my hand, placing soft kisses on my palm. “It won’t be your last,” he said, eyes scorching.

“I hope not,” I said, wriggling into my sleeping position, “now that I have a live-in boyfriend.”

Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling.

He pulled me closer and nuzzled my ear. “Can I change the subject for a moment?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Can I ask about your past now? You talk in your sleep, you know. And a question has been haunting me for weeks now,” he whispered, and I squirmed in his arms.

“Oh God,” I whimpered, worried about what I may have said. “What sort of things do I talk about?”

He snickered, then answered, “Mostly things about your day, and about us . . . nothing
too
embarrassing.”

I felt another long pause again, so I asked, “
Too
embarrassing? William—spill the beans.”

He chuckled again, and asked, “I just want to know—who’s Bizzy?”