Just months before I start medical school in Boston, I decide to let loose for one night. A dark club, a loud band, strong drinks--and the attention of a dangerous-looking man who says he's in the city for only a week.
I know exactly what he is: a...
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I look up at him, my mouth open and wet. Until a second ago, I was having the best time. I'd felt sated and sensual and yeah, powerful, as I slid his hard cock between my lips.
I thought was loving everything. All signs pointed to his satisfaction. The way he let out a desperate, groaning growl. How he stroked my cheek as I took him into my mouth. When he whispered, "just like that, Evangeline baby, fuck yes," in that Italian accent.
The way he'd seemed to revel in my body, treating it like it was an object worthy of worship, not something to be used and discarded.
A grumble of confusion escapes my throat. "What? What's wrong? Did I do something wr-"
His grip on my hair tightens. My scalp stings and I reach for his hand while whining an ow sound.
"Stop! You're hurting me, Matteo."
His eyes are no longer glowing red, but a harsh, icy blue. He releases my hair and awkwardly pats me on top of my head, like a dog. "I'm sorry. You. Need. To. Leave."
"But..." I sit back on my heels and watch as he tucks himself back into his pants then rises to his feet.
He shakes his head. "I'll wait by the door while you dress."
His tone is as cold as I feel inside.
Stunned, my gaze follows Matteo as he stalks out of the room. What the hell just happened? Tears well in my eyes. Shame, anger, confusion swirl in my brain, making my heart pound as I wrap my arms around my bare midsection. My nipples, pink and raw from his attention, are no longer peaked and stiff. I'm sticky and gross between my legs, and the memory of him making me that wet is no longer a pleasant one — it's deeply humiliating.
I'm naked, vulnerable and freaked out. My teeth begin to chatter, as if I'm sitting in a snowbank and not a cozy, dark library. Even the roaring fire doesn't warm my flesh. Crap, I have to get out of here. This guy's unpredictable. Possibly worse than I ever imagined. I knew vampires could be emotional, mercurial, even. But what guy in his right mind halts a blowjob?
I scramble to gather my clothes. I swipe tears off my cheeks and remind myself to put on my underwear first. Where is my bra? Oh, right. He threw it into the fire hours ago.
Fucking awesome. He destroyed my favorite bra, gave me the best orgasms I'll probably ever have in my life, and then rejected me while I was sucking his dick.
Well, this is a new low.
A million thoughts go through my head, all with me in the starring role as the guilty party. Could he tell I'm a virgin, and didn't want to deal with that? Even so, I've given blowjobs before, and no one's ever complained. Did I accidentally bite him? I didn't think so.
He seemed so into it. So into me. What did I do wrong?
I suck in a breath and realize that my mouth now feels dry. The mug of coffee he'd made for me sits on an end table, and I reach for it while only in my leggings, skirt and bra. The liquid is cold and bitter now, not warm and nurturing as before. Whatever. I gulp it down and immediately regret it, because my stomach churns uncomfortably, as if I'm digesting pure acid.
"Fuck," I whisper. This is so profoundly confusing. Matteo was the first man I'd truly enjoyed being with sexually — and I could've sworn he wanted to feed on me.
I was so close to getting everything I wanted, and now, I have nothing but humiliation and embarrassment. I swallow a few times, trying to get the thick lump of tears out of my throat.
Hurriedly, I pull on my sweater, anxious that I'm taking too long. I pull on my socks and boots, then reach for my purse on a nearby chair. Because I'm shaking so much, I accidentally spill everything between the chair and an end table.
"Dammit," I hiss while scooping everything up, jamming it back into my bag.
I again swipe away the tears off my cheeks and take a deep, fortifying breath before I step into the hall.
Matteo's near the door, leaning against the wall, holding my wool coat. His posture is rigid, and his eyes are closed.
I stalk up to him, a twinge of anger cutting through all the other emotions, and grab my jacket from his hand.
His eyelids slap open. "I'm sor-"
"Save your apologies." Of course this is the time when I can't find my sleeve, and I flail with my jacket. "Sorry."
"Here, let me help you." He goes to hold my jacket.
"No. Don't bother." I'm trying not to escalate the situation by saying something sharp like fuck you or what the hell is wrong with you. I finally manage to get one arm through the sleeve, and I give up on the other, letting my jacket hang half off me in a pathetic twist.
Our eyes meet. To my surprise, there's a flicker of emotion there. Sadness? Confusion? He swallows, and his brow furrows, as if he's about to say something. As if he's as perplexed as I am.
This only makes me want to cry, and I'll be damned if I do that in front of him.
I shake my head and yank open the door. Or try to. It's locked. I am a bumbling idiot.
"Uh, sorry," he mumbles, reaching past me to undo the locks. His nearness and his smell — a heady scent of his cologne, coffee, and us — washes over me. I'm practically dizzy with the memory of him touching and kissing me, and it's all too overwhelming.
Fuck him.
Without saying a word, I step outside and run down the steps of the brownstone. It's somehow still daytime, and the bright sunshine belies the frigid air.
I want to look back to see if Matteo is watching me leave, but I don't. I can't. I won't give him that satisfaction. Somehow I manage to hold my head high and get my other arm into my coat sleeve.
But when I hear the sound of his door closing, I break into a run toward Beacon Street, and allow myself to sob as much as I want, not caring that people are gawking.
