Here’s an little unpolished gem from the story I’m typing up for a vampire erotica anthology – nothing too explicit, just a little sexy. The name of the story is “The Artist.”
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Francesca twisted the chopsticks into her hair then jabbed the points into the knot to hold it in place. Her eyes never left the still-damp painting on the easel before her, and any observer could have seen from her face she wasn’t pleased. “That is a gimpy leg.” She took a long slurp from the icy bottle of Jaegermeister she had just taken out of the freezer to help her burn the midnight oil. “If I’m supposed to be so fucking talented, how did I paint that gimpy leg?” She set the bottle aside and reached for her palette, poking the remaining gob of fleshtone there for viable moisture with a delicate, blue-nailed finger. “Yech . . .”
“Actually,” a voice said from behind her. “I don’t think it looks so bad.”
“Yeah, well, you’re crazy,” she retorted, unalarmed. She picked up a brush and wiped it clean before attacking the offending limb with a fresh coat of background – another lost cause. “And a liar. Didn’t you say your dick would rot off if you didn’t get to see Heavyside with everybody else?”
The laugh was friendly, even affectionate, but the sound made her scalp start to tingle – that was definitely not her guy. “He didn’t actually say that, did he?” She turned around to find the dark-haired stranger with the scary bedroom eyes standing right behind her. “What is it I’m supposed to say?” It was the guy from the window before – correction, the gorgeous guy from the window before, the one who had given her the willies in a thousand different interesting ways. Only now he was smiling. “Pardon me, miss, but you seem to have mistaken me for someone else.”
“So I noticed.” She backed way, suddenly painfully aware that she wasn’t wearing anything but underpants, socks, and a sweater. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
“Don’t ask.” He held a palm up in front of her face in a theatrical gesture that should have been ridiculous but somehow just wasn’t. “I’m tired, Francesca.” His voice slid around her like a slowly unfurling skein of silky spider’s web, making every word and every gesture seem not only reasonable but beautiful, a consummation devoutly to be wished. His hand . . . the artist in her was fascinated by it, the perfect curve of the muscle below his thumb sweeping up to the shadowed center where every line crossed, fingers curled in ever so slightly, pale and delicate but strong, with a powerful man’s wrist, too thick for her to reach around with her fingers, should she ever work up the guts to try. So that’s what a hand looks like, she thought with perfect clarity, but nothing else seemed quite real. “Don’t ask me to explain.” He reached slowly for the chopsticks in her hair and slid them out. “Don’t send me away.”
“Don’t worry.” She laughed, and all her questions and anxieties fell away as easily as her long red hair fell down her back. Slut, she scolded herself with a merry inner laugh as he took a step closer and her breath caught short.
His hands came down on her shoulders, holding her body fast a few scant inches from his own. His face came closer and closer, those eyes crashing over her like a velvet-dark wave, drowning her perceptions until the lids suddenly fell shut, an angel’s lashes on his cheek, brushing her cheek as his lips brushed over her own, so cold and soft. “What are you?” she asked as the cold, soft mouth slipped up over her cheek, her eyelids, thrilling flicker of tongue as he tasted her skin.
“Do you care?” He caught her nose ring between his teeth and gave it a gentle tug before he backed away and looked into her eyes.
Why aren’t I afraid? she thought, reaching out slowly to lay her hands against his chest. She needed to prove to herself he was solid, that he was really there. I should be really, really afraid. “Yeah.” She looked up at his face again. “I think I really do.”
He kissed her mouth again, his hand closing gently over her wrist and guiding her hand to the opening at the throat of his shirt, sliding it inside. His flesh was like living stone, the muscle cool to the touch with no heartbeat underneath. She gasped against his mouth, flinching, and he broke the kiss. “Don’t be scared.” His eyes were serious . . . and changing . . the black was fading – no, dissolving – no, burning up in a green-gold glow. “Are you sure you want to know?”
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End of snippet – stay tuned for the rest!
Lucy Blue Writes 