© Vampires Love Garlic 2026 by Ashley Chapman. All rights reserved.

Chapter 38

My Own Personal Vintage

McKenzie

Feeding in and of itself is morbid.

Blood gets everywhere. Biting into an artery sends it spurting throughout the room, covering both predator and prey in heavy scarlet droplets that turn an ordinary feeding into a murder scene that would fit in a Quentin Tarantino film.

But this… this offering that Heather’s given me… this is beautiful.

Never mind the blood itself. I sink my fangs in deep, draw generous mouthfuls of blood, and keep my fangs still, not wanting to tear or hurt. She tastes amazing, just like she did last time. But it’s her trust here, her faith in me, her knowing that I won’t hurt her, that I will stop, that I will take care of her, that makes this the absolute sexiest encounter I’ve ever experienced.

Her head falls back within seconds of my bite. She doesn’t seem sure about where to put her hands, but her left hand finds my hair and strokes through it, her silent plea for me to continue. I keep my left hand on her leg, supporting her, feeling her trembling beneath my fingers, and I let my right hand move up, reaching for her heat, finding her.

Her gasp is a strong encouragement.

You forget about how important touch is, how new and wonderful it can be, when you’re used to people throwing themselves on you. My wealth and prestige have made me somewhat immune to nails against my shoulders, to hands where they often shouldn’t be, to offers of extreme indecency. Sex just tends to go with vampirism. At least, that’s what the media makes of vampires.

But for Heather, everything is new. For her, every nerve ending is on fire.

I only have to move my fingers softly, barely, and her thighs tremble. Her hand tightens in my hair as I feed, but I’m paying less attention to her blood and more attention to her. To the way she sighs, gasps, and on one euphoric occasion, cries out my name. She’s trusting me with everything, opening to me like a magnolia blossom in the summer, pushing past her nerves to give me this deliriously wonderful experience. It doesn’t matter to her that I’ve done so much of this before. Fed from a thigh? Yeah. Once, in Rome. Driven women insane with my fingers, knowing exactly how and when to move? Sure.

None of them were Heather.

My blushing, oh-my-goshing, hide-behind-a-newspaper, afraid-of-my-own-body Heather.

She’s moving with me now, though she doesn’t know it. Her body’s found a rhythm, searching for more of me, needing more of me. I increase the pressure of my fingers while dragging one more mouthful of blood from her thigh. My own body is reacting to hers, ready and willing to give her more. It hurts to hold back, because she doesn’t yet fully want it even as her body responds. I want to consummate the heat that’s been building between us for months now, but until she wants it, until she says it, this is as far as I’m going to take her.

And I want to see her face.

I lick the puncture wounds and lean up on one elbow, looking at her face.

Oh my God. This woman. I know she can kill me with a smile, but hot damn.

Her back is arched, her thighs parted, her head tossed back. Her hair, streaked with scarlet, is strewn across her pillows like Spanish moss over an oak limb. Her hand, the one that isn’t in my hair, is fisted in her blankets. Her skirt is pushed nearly up to her hips, on the dangerous edge of revealing the part of her that so obviously craves me, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are closed, glasses discarded somewhere on her bedside table. Her lips are parted, and the sweetest, hottest sounds are slipping past. How they can be sweet and hot at the same time is nearly a mystery to me, but then this is Heather, and you can’t have one without the other.

She says my name, a question, as her body begins to tremble.

“Are we back on a pirate ship?” I murmur, shifting just enough to grace my lips across her throat.

“The… the sky…” She pants, tilting her head just right for me to kiss the pulse in her neck.

“I’m there with you,” I whisper, sucking gently.

Her hips are moving, seeking, and I take her to the heavens.

She cries out, back arching high off the bed, tightening for just a moment before she’s left trembling and gasping, fallen back against the mattress.

And the love and pride that suddenly bursts through me is enough to send me spiraling there with her. No touch required.

There’s a first.

Heather’s body calms while mine’s still twitching. She doesn’t seem to notice, but turns onto her side and buries her face in my chest.

“You all right?” I croak.

Damn. She’s even changed my voice.

She nods, her hair brushing my chin.

“Do you need water?”

She shakes her head.

“Mind blown?”

She laughs, her breath warm against my heated skin.

“You’re terrible,” she whispers, kissing the hollow of my throat.

“But not at pleasuring you.”

She laughs again and rolls onto her back.

It’s still raining out. The droplets are pattering against the skylight. It’s still gloomy and dark. But not in here. Not with her.

“I’m getting you water,” I say, sitting up.

Just as I move, her stomach growls.

“Let me get you some water, take a shower, then take you to lunch. Do you mind if I use your bathroom and run a load of laundry? I’ve got blood all over my clothes.” Blood and other bodily fluids, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She nods.

I hurry downstairs, grab two water bottles from the kitchen, then go back to the attic. I open a bottle for her, watch her take a few sips, then find my way to the second-floor bathroom. I strip, leave my dirty clothes carefully piled just outside the bathroom door, and turn on the shower.

My heart is still beating wildly. I can still hear her sounds, feel her trembling, and I still want her, but I’m going to have to ease back down. The water is hot, and I turn my face up to the showerhead, run my hands through my hair, and sigh.

Damn.

She’s mine.

Scarier still.

I’m hers.

I lather up a handful of apple-scented body wash and scrub myself down. I remind my very aroused anatomy to “ease down, boy,” and then let myself stand still for a minute. I can’t believe she got me to climax just by being herself. Really. She stopped trying to hide behind embarrassment and just… let go. Shit, but that’s sexy, and my body’s in rebellion to my mental commands, hardening up again. Jeez.

The bathroom door opens, and I can smell her. Juniper, a touch of laundry detergent, her.

“Kenzie?” Her voice is shy again, uncertain, but I hear her shut and lock the door. I hear her pulling her dress over her head. Lord.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in with you?”

Oh please. Yes, ma’am. Shit and hellfire.

“Yes.” That’s about all I can coherently say.

“Just… don’t turn around, okay?”

I nod, not that she can see it. I listen to the shower curtain pull aside, listen to her step in behind me. I stay still, reminding myself to breathe.

She’s in the shower with me.

Standing right behind me.

I feel her fingers slide over my waist, her arms wrapping around me. Her hands rest against my abdomen, dangerously close to my very eager self, but she isn’t making any attempt to seduce or tempt. She snuggles up behind me, her breasts (sweet gods above) pressing into my back, all soft and warm. Her breath blows over my skin, and I can feel my heartbeat relaxing.

I’m going to stay turned on. That’s just a fact. But I can be aroused and calm at the same time.

“You all right?” I ask as she nuzzles into my back.

“Very much so.”

“Are you feeling dizzy at all?”

“No. Just hungry.”

I reach down, take one of her hands, raise it to my lips, and kiss her knuckles.

“Is this okay?” she asks, a damp strand of her hair tickling my skin.

“It’s more than okay.”

“You aren’t… upset… are you?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“I’m letting you feed from me. We’re fooling around, but I haven’t let you go all the way. You know, I mean, I’m standing here naked, but I’m not letting you see me. Isn’t that me being a tease? Doesn’t that irritate you?”

I could tell her about the countless women who have thrown themselves at me. I could tell her the story of the one woman in London who joined me in the shower, without my permission, and tried to please me before getting herself swiftly kicked out and banned from the property. I’ve had women who’ve had no problem doing whatever I want. Heather’s the first one who’s made me wait. And I see the beauty in that.

“You aren’t a tease.” I wish I could turn around, could hold her face in my hands. “You have boundaries, and that’s a good thing. I don’t ever want to rush you into something you aren’t ready for. You may never be ready for me to make love to you, and that’s okay. I’ve heard somewhere that love is patient. I’d be a complete idiot to mess up what we’ve got going on because my dick can’t control itself.”

She’s quiet for a minute. Thinking.

“So, you won’t hate me,” she says slowly, “if I ask you to turn around? I don’t want more romance. I just… I want to feel your arms around me, too. But I don’t want to ask you to do anything that you struggle with.”

Oh, but it’s a sweet burn, baby.

“I won’t hate you. Might hate my Johnson a bit, but never you. Do you want me to turn around?”

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but there’s no doubt in it. Just timidity. Which is exactly what I would expect from her.

She removes her hands from me, and I turn.

I’m not going to look at her breasts, though my eyeballs are doing their best to rebel. Not going to look at what I know is a gorgeous body. Not going to take advantage or overpower or tease. This is her moment. This is her safety.

She looks up at me, water flowing through her hair, stroking it back, away from her face. There’s a look in her eyes, a look of such profound love and trust that I could melt and drift away into the drain. She moves close, her body meeting mine, and yeah, I’m a guy, so I twitch and I harden and I could make this absolutely embarrassing for both of us, but I don’t. More importantly, neither does she. There’s no way she doesn’t know what my body’s doing. We fit perfectly together, just like this, not even joined, so naturally she knows that there are parts of me that want to find that last step, that want to be home. She’s worth more than that, though. Worth more than a wild lovemaking session in a steaming shower where her back would be cold against the tiles and she’d have to perform some extreme yoga.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, her eyes searching mine.

“About shower sex.”

Well, shit.

She laughs, her eyes sparkling with delight as my arms wrap around her and my fingers play something along the lines of Rondo alla Turca on the small of her back.

“Me too.” She giggles.

“No!” I gasp, my grin huge.

“Do you think it’s even possible? I mean, not right now, not with the two of us, but…”

“Possible, yes. Pleasant, no. Tiles digging into your back. Hot water nearly drowning us both.” I glance down at the shower floor. Oops. Have to look past her breasts to get there. Well, darn. But I digress. Anyway. “The floor’s too slippery. Even if I could get you up, it’d be a real balancing act to try not to send us both flying. There’s no traction. Not for my feet, not for your back. And you’d have to hook your legs over my hips.”

Going into dangerous territory here, but you know what, she showed me her imagination with the pirate ship, so she’s going to have to deal with mine.

“Slippery, drowning, no traction. Wouldn’t be great.”

She laughs, and I’d give a lot of money to hear her snort again, but she manages to contain it. She stands on tiptoes, kisses me on the cheek, and tightens her hands on me.

“This is the best shower I’ve ever had,” she says, eyes bright.

Me too, sweetheart.

Me too.