How to Discipline Your Vampire (8 page)

His expression was nearly terrified as I ran my hands all over his skin. “What’s your diagnosis?” he asked wearily.

I smiled, saying, “I’m not done, Lieutenant. Not by a long shot.”

When my fingers rested on his belt buckle, he finally relaxed into a smile. “I’m not worried. I know I’m in expert hands,” he said.

I tightened my grip on the waistband of his pants. “You’re not
really
in my hands, yet. Trust me . . . ,” I said, leaning in, “you’ll know.”

He threw his head back and watched me work. I unzipped his trousers and slid them around his ankles. First and foremost, I wanted to inspect his actual wound—his flogger-induced redness.

“Oh my,” I said, “I think we finally have an injury.” I ran my hand over the skin, examining the pink patches on his thighs, expecting them to feel warmer to the touch.

They weren’t. The spots were an odd shade of pink—nothing like I had ever seen on a sub. Then again, nothing about William was ordinary. I pressed my finger down hard, expecting him to wince or expecting the spot to further redden.

It didn’t.

I met his gaze. Again, his expression was concerned.

“I think you’ll live,” I said curtly. “These look painful, but in war, these things happen. You’ll barely see the marks tomorrow.”

He sighed, relieved.

I pulled the pants off his legs and removed his socks. God, he even had beautiful feet. My hands traveled back up his muscular legs.

“What the hell is this?” I asked nobody in particular. On my hand was some pink substance. I began to rub it off.

William sat up, out of character. “Ignore it,” he said boldly.

I gritted my teeth.
How indignant of him!
I opened my mouth to speak when I noticed that his “redness” was peculiarly . . . streaked.

I ran my pointer finger down his left thigh roughly, and sure enough, a little chunk of pink accumulated on my fingertip.

My mouth frowned, and my eyes constricted into slits. “End of scene. Explain,” I growled.

He drew a deep breath and began to speak. “Mistress, I had mentioned to you during our first conversation how I didn’t redden or bruise,” he said, eyes downward and voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to let you down after such a wonderful experience yesterday, so I did whatever I could to please you. I even replaced your blush,” he said, gesturing toward my bathroom.

Apparently, he had used my MAC blush as his “wound.” Expensive taste for costume makeup.

I was furious on so many levels. He lied. He faked an injury. He disobeyed. He used my fucking MAC! Why couldn’t he have used the cheap dollar-store stuff I had in my makeup bag?

I could barely think.

“Dismissed,” my mouth said to the gorgeous, nearly naked man on my bed.

His eyes searched my face, and his mouth moved silently. “Mistress?” he asked, nearly whimpering.

“We’re done for the week. I’ll see you Monday.”

He sat up on his knees, pleading. “If you’re angry, take it out on me, Mistress. Punish me. I’m
so
sorry. Do with me what you will.”

I shook my head. “I need to actually
desire
you to do that, William, and right now I’m so upset, I can’t even see straight. Get out of my house, or explain what the hell is going on.”

I laid my cards out on the table, as they say. I was angry, but I required answers. I needed to show him he didn’t deserve to be in my presence, but I also didn’t want to lose him. Once again, I wanted something I didn’t quite have, and I wasn’t ready to compromise myself for him just yet. We had a few incredible scenes, but that wasn’t enough to win my trust or loyalty.

He planted his hands on his thighs, and lifted his head up to me. His voice sounded like it was being sliced with knives. “You already know everything you need to know, Mistress. What I told you, and the words in those diaries . . . they’re all true.”

I breathed in deeply through my nostrils, and spoke with a shaking voice. “Get. Out.”

CHAPTER NINE

Cerise

Of course he was fucking insane. That was my luck, right? Of course the handsomest, most creative and panty-dampening guy I’d met in years was a complete and total whackjob.

A vampire. Great. How long until he tried to “bite” me, or drag me to some Goth club where he and his weirdo friends would drink pig’s blood and wear plastic fangs and cat-eye contact lenses? How long until we were married and had little Goth kids named Caligula and Artery? Fucking weirdo.

And yet he didn’t seem
weird
-weird. Sure, he had bizarre skin and other peculiar traits. But, in all honesty, I really couldn’t picture him doing any of that Goth stuff. So why the lies? Occam’s razor dictated that the most obvious answer was usually the right one . . .

. . . so he must actually be insane. Most obvious answer, right?

Truthfully, I was the insane one. I declined all substitute calls today. That wasn’t insane . . . the fact that I stayed home for the day to cry my eyes out and read the rest of his journals . . . that was the crazy part.

I sat on my bed, fully flannelled, with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche in one hand and a leather-bound journal of an insane “vampire” in the other. I mean, I knew that sexy manpires were all the rage these days, but seriously, to actually try to get me to believe that he is one? Deranged. And yet I still held this journal in front of me.

What the hell was wrong with me? I told myself years ago I’d never let another guy dupe me. I’d never be lied to again.

But was
fiction
actually lying?

September 22, 2010

Dear Journal,

I think I need to be alone for a while. I am tired of my family and friends trying to set me up.

“William,” my niece says nearly monthly now, “you need a woman.”

What I need, Bree, is a good spanking and I can’t find anyone to give it to me.

Their latest attempt at matchmaking failed miserably. Steve called down his friends from Philly with the intent that I pair off with one of them—Sarah or Melissa. Both sisters were vapid and utterly soulless, even for our kind. Their temperaments were pleasant enough, but they both exhibited personalities that simply were not strong enough for me.

I’m beginning to worry that my friends just want to be rid of me. Their constant efforts and attempts to cheer me up have taken a new turn after my rejection of both women. Now Steve wants me to maybe get younger and go back to school, so I may pour my attention into my work. Find something to live for.

As if I live at all.

I’m tired of changing my age just to find people that are suitable for me. I’ve vacillated between my thirties and teens so many times I can’t count. A vampire’s body can change its age in seconds—it’s part of our ability to adapt as predators. Sometimes the little old man on the bench is a greater threat than the hulking thug on the corner. This talent ought to make life’s journey more fresh, but instead it is always a disappointment. Each time I grow young, I think more opportunities will open themselves to me, but instead it’s just the same trite experiences with different background music and technology. Plus, I’m enjoying my job, and I don’t want to leave the administration to someone else. My life is good right now, just not the loneliness.

So I paint, I sculpt, I dally in museums, and waste my time in a million ways.

Frustrated and tortured . . . as usual,

William

Okay,
I thought to myself as I closed the book,
definitely insane
.

I mean, if the whole purpose of writing these journals was to set a scene where he seduces me, why include all this unnecessary (albeit fascinating) information? Did he think it would turn me on to hear about his nephew-in-law’s aspirations for him? So strange.

Then, I thought about it more. All of these entries were so consistent. They all exhibited the same personality—the desperate yearning of a lonely soul. Maybe he didn’t work because he was a writer. Maybe he was a really fucking good writer who made enough from his first book to be able to afford not to work and to spend all his money on buying me pianos and gowns.

Fuck me.

I realized I was doing it again: self-sabotage. When it comes to S&M, I was both sides of the coin. I loved the feeling of slapping the ever-loving bejeezus out of someone with a leather whip, but I did the same shit to myself mentally. I was a sadistic masochist. What the hell was it about me that tried to undo any potential happiness that came my way?

I flipped through my recipe box. I didn’t really know why. Was it to remind myself why I had this fetish? To show myself all the fun I’d had over the years? Or was it to prove what a bitch I was—reminding myself of all the men whom I threw away?

I held on to one card a bit too long. The title simply read
CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.

I fanned myself, remembering that day.

“Ms. Norrel,” Brent crooned, “I hope you’re hungry.”

I walked into my home, and the scent of chocolate and other indulgent sweets filled the air. I smirked, wondering what Brent had concocted for today’s scene. I didn’t eat all day in anticipation of this buffet.

Hot damn,
I thought to myself as I walked into the kitchen. Brent was there, shirtless and collared as usual, licking cake batter off his fingers. He reached into the bowl for more and gave the remaining batter a good stir. I watched his tongue curl around the long length of the spoon and nearly fainted.

“Your usual pastry chef cancelled today, sadly, so the chef asked me to fill in,” he explained in a low voice, seemingly not noticing the chocolate dripping onto his abs.

I could barely control myself.

“Are we to have a tasting?” I asked, and bit my lip in anticipation.

He nodded, an impish grin creeping up his face. “Whatever you’d like.” He walked over to the table and I saw what he had been working on. Cupcakes, some parfaits, a whole array of desserts were placed in front of me.

All desserts, I noticed, that are lickable.
Not bad, Brent
.

“I think I know what I’d like,” I said, pulling him close to me by his dog collar. I could feel the heat off his chest as I yanked him near. I bent low and slowly licked the drip that had nearly reached his hips.

He groaned.

We “ate.”

I spent the next week getting chocolate out of my ropes.

I frowned at myself for reading any recipe cards having to do with Brent, especially that one. It was one of our best times together—before he got too clingy, too needy. I had always tried to keep a professional distance from my subs, and with good reason. They were to submit to me sexually—that is what they were there for. They were not in my home to be my friends or be my boyfriends. They were there for me to tie up and fuck.

But Brent wanted more, and subsequently, he got less. There were times in the last month when I pictured what it would have been like if I
did
allow him to be closer to me. What the hell would I do with him? I couldn’t imagine going to the movies with him, or out to dinner with him. He was so submissive that it would have bled into every crevice of our relationship. I bet he’d even cut up my steak for me.

Was this me talking, or was it the Unabomber inside me bent on blowing shit up? I needed a hoodie and sunglasses for that, though, right?

N
o
,
I decided,
I didn’t need a boyfriend
. I never imagined having kids, although I was sure I’d be great at bossing them around. What else were guys good for other than banging? I had people to talk to and hang out with. I had TV and movies for when I got bored. Boys were messy and smelly and entirely unnecessary.

What was the use of a man aside from being something to bounce up and down on?

Ding-dong.

I hated my fucking generic doorbell.

Who the hell was at my house at three in the afternoon? It was rainy and gross, so it sure wasn’t someone selling Verizon FiOS.

I hopped up and wiped the caramel ice cream off my top lip and headed to the door.
Shit
—I hoped it wasn’t one of my principals. Maybe they figured out I’d been avoiding them . . .

“Mistress,” William whispered as I opened the door.

And nearly shut it in his face. His hand shot up, faster than possible, and kept me from slamming it.

“Please, let me in,” he pleaded. “Just hear me out.”

The Unabomber inside me retreated to her little hermit cave, and I allowed him to step inside. I still seethed at his audacity, but at least I’d let him explain. He was holding a garment bag for some reason.

“Do you
actually
think I’d do a scene with you today?” I asked, pointing to the garment bag.

He shook his head, blue-violet eyes downcast. “No, Mistress, I—”

“I’m not so sure I want you calling me Mistress,” I hissed. “I’m not sure you deserve it. It’s the weekend, and you have the
balls
to show up at my house, in the middle of the day, like nothing had happened?” I crossed my arms sternly beneath my breasts, which he wasn’t even
noticing
. Then again, I was wearing flannel pj’s so they weren’t particularly enticing right then.

“I came over to invite you out tonight. I’d like to take you to dinner in Boston, and then to my favorite museum,” he said smoothly, picking his head up.

My mouth fell open, literally. It was like someone had unhinged my jaw and I was utterly gawking at him.

A date?

“What?” I asked, eyes narrowed.

“I’d like to take you out tonight,” he said, still holding the garment bag close to his body.

I laughed in his face. “First off, who the hell do you think you are asking
me
out on a date? Don’t you know how this thing works? I make the rules—and I don’t go out to dinner with submissives unless I’m eating
off
them. Secondly, and you seem to have a good memory so I’m not sure why it’s failing you now, it’s officially
the weekend
. And that means I don’t do subs, and I don’t change out of my pajamas.”
That should shut the book on his argument.
I realized, however, that the Unabomber was the one speaking, not me. Truthfully, I kind of wanted to take him up on his offer.

So did Bizzy.

“I didn’t forget about your weekend rules when it comes to flannel,” he said, smirking. “That’s why I brought this.”

William unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a cocktail dress. A couture, adorable, little black
flannel
cocktail dress.

“One of my friends is a fashion designer, and I told him what I needed, so he whipped up this little number. I think it fits your weekend-worthy criteria—it’s completely flannel and jersey, and he says it’s comfortable enough to wear to bed. The only problem is,” he said, grinning, “I think you’ll have to change out of your slippers.”

Could her jaw drop lower?
asked gravity. Yes, why, yes it could. I put my hand under my chin and demurely brought it back to my face.

He walked slowly closer to me, and placed the dress in my immobile hands. “I’ll pick you up around six,” he said softly, spun on one heel, and walked out my door.

Then I promptly stabbed my Unabomber in the throat and got ready for my hot date.