The Drinker of Blood

Chapter Seven

It was a pleasant and fun-filled drive, and it was so early when we arrived at the Clarion Hotel in Key West that we had the desk send us up several bottles of wine to help us pass away the evening. I never have been a slave to the creature comforts, but the room was lovely and the view from the veranda was gorgeous and ... yes, romantic.

Freya insisted that I clean up first—I chose not to read anything into her request—and when I came out from the shower, she was sitting and relaxing on the plush sofa at the foot of our spacious room's single enormous bed.

It didn't occur to me until that moment that, without thinking, I'd booked a room with just one bed. Freya said not a word about the arrangement.

"I could sleep on the couch tonight, you being married and all," I told her. I nearly patted myself on the back for being so mature and resolute.

She finished her sip of wine and giggled. "Don't be silly. It's just us girls here. Besides, the bed is incredible."

I went over and gave it a few tentative pokes before jumping on and having a short bounce. It truly was splendid. I then went over and nudged around the kitchenette to see if there was anything on which to nibble. The shelves and fridge were stocked amply with numerous things that were worth more than just a nibble or two.

"Would you like anything?" I said as I pulled some cheese and crackers from the fridge.

"Did you fuck Fallon last night?" Freya's words were just a breathless whisper, as if she was having a hard time catching her wind.

I went over and sat next to her, near but not too near. One of us needed to be an adult, and I decided it had to be me. I took in her beautiful eyes, drew a breath, and prepared what I had planned to say should this moment come. Then I said just the opposite.

"Take all your clothes off and climb into bed, and I'll tell you."

"Ohhh ...," she nearly moaned. "I really shouldn't oughta do that." Her hand fumbled out, gently caressed my cheek, and landed on my shoulder. Even through the thick terrycloth of the hotel robe, her touch was like fire. Her voice was still just a husky whisper. "I really do want to see you naked, though."

I reached out to touch her thigh, not in a sexual way, but in a comforting way. It was then I realized she very much was trembling.

"You just want to see if I have any scars," was my conspiratorial whisper. "All in the name of science, of course."

"Yes, absolutely."

I led her by the hand to our far too comfortable bed, slipped my robe off, and stretched out in front of her. When I did, I lay her hand on my stomach, and slid over just enough to make room for her.

Freya was shaking as if from the cold, and her breathing was uneven. With her gentle, soft, trembling hands, she began to make slow caresses of my stomach, her eyes ranging up and down. There was something like hunger in her gaze, but also a hint of shame. I slid a gentle hand up my lover's arm to comfort her, and to steady my own shaking.

I always liked my body. My breasts were small, but my waist and hips were exactly as a woman's should be. I otherwise was long, lean, and spare.

"When I was a girl," I told her, "I was so tall my parents thought they'd never find a match for me. But over the ages, people got taller. Now I'm not much taller than the average woman."

My words seemed to sooth her, and, after some minutes, her trembling diminished. Her breathing though still belied her excitement. She truly was inspecting my body, slowly and with great care. Soon, she shifted her body closer to mine until our thighs touched, and she examined my flesh, inch by inch, from the midriff upward.