Kiss Me, Kill Me Read online

  Once I was naked, Greg helped me into the contraption. It was a hammock-style one, and I’m not gonna lie, it was quite awkward (read: extremely not sexy) as I endeavoured to wriggle upwards into position. On the bright side, it was made of fabric, not leather or pleather or vinyl, so my tush didn’t get stuck to it or make any weird noises as I manoeuvred. Nothing worse than fart noises when you’re getting ready for sexy times.

  Another good thing was the fact that it had four attachment points (the more the merrier, in my opinion). And this swing didn’t require any feats of contortion or strength to stay in it. Which is probably why Greg had decided on this style.

  When I’d first met him, Greg had fixed a lot of my back issues from a long-ago car accident. Sometimes, though, certain things made the old injuries flare up. Greg always fixed me afterwards, but he was also careful not to do anything to exacerbate the problem.

  ‘Is this the Screamer Sex Sling?’ I asked once I was all settled in and ready for action.

  I got a closed-mouthed smile this time. ‘Yes. You really did your research, didn’t you?’

  ‘Mm-hm,’ I managed to mumble as Greg grasped my feet and placed them into the stirrups.

  ‘Hold on to the handles,’ he instructed.

  Once that was done, he just stood there, staring down at me.

  Greg has a particular way of staring at me. It’s a strange and exhilarating combination of investigating and knowing. On the one hand, it’s as if he’s beholding me for the first time. On the other hand, it seems as if he can see inside and knows every single thing about me.

  He walked around the swing, taking his time, not touching but inspecting me from all angles.

  I watched him and could tell he very much enjoyed seeing me in this particular piece of equipment.

  By the time he returned to the end of the swing, I was covered in goose bumps, my nipples were hard, and there was a dense pressure in my core. As he stripped out of his clothes, revealing his hard body and the straining arousal between his legs, the pressure increased so sharply, my eyes closed, and I uttered a quiet gasp.

  ‘Now,’ Greg said, ‘let’s see how naughty girls get punished.’

  The first slap on my pussy came before I’d opened my eyes. My legs jerked, and I cried out at the shock that felt so good.

  Greg had introduced me to pussy spanking a little while back. If someone had told me B.G. (Before Greg) that I’d enjoy this kind of thing, I’d have told them to take their pills.

  Greg’s cupped palm made contact again, and as I experienced the vibrations of the smack travel up and through me, a sound that originated deep in my chest exploded out between my clenched teeth. It was a guttural sound. A particular one, only ever uttered when he did this to me. Because nothing else felt like this.

  He smacked me again and again. Leaving time between for me to fully enjoy the reverberations as they shook me from the outside in.

  ‘Christ, you get so wet,’ he ground out.

  I could feel it every time he made contact. I must have been dripping all over his hand.

  ‘Can you come like this?’ He always asked, never mind that he knew the answer.

  ‘Nooo,’ I wailed.

  ‘You love it, though, don’t you, my girl?’ Spank. ‘You feel it deep.’ Spank. ‘You experience me so fucking deep inside you.’

  ‘Shhhhgghhhhhaaaah.’ I made a sound that was like coming. Except without the actual coming part.

  Greg stopped. Closed his eyes. Sucked in a deep breath. Shuddered. As though the sound I made was a tangible thing. Like he could breathe it in—a drug in gaseous form.

  When he opened his eyes again, his look was so potently feral it seemed as if he wanted to devour me. He spanked me again, the hardest one yet. I cried out once more and he gave an answering growl in his throat—definitely feral.

  He took a step closer, nostrils flared, angry reddened cock clenched hard in his fist.

  ‘Please. Please.’ My voice was shaky and plaintive.

  ‘I love you like this.’ The head of his penis nudged my opening. I clutched the handles and pushed my feet against the stirrups, lifting myself, squirming against him.

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Please, Greg. Fuck me.’

  ‘I love when you’re crying and begging for my cock.’

  His words were like slaps upside the head. Crying? I released the handhold long enough to swipe some wet stuff from my face. And would you look at that—I was crying.

  He pressed against me, sliding in just a bit before he stopped.

  A full-body tremor shook me. ‘Please, please, pleasepleaseplease.’ Greg was right; I was crying and begging, too. Well, I’d only be like this with him. Only for him. ‘Pleeeeeeease!’ The last word became one long wail, beginning tortured and ending like a joyous hallelujah, as he unhurriedly pushed his thick length all the way inside.

  He groaned deeply when he was fully seated. Then he did what I’d been begging him to do. He fucked me. Not sweetly or politely. Not as if I were made of spun glass.

  Not by moving, either.

  Grabbing my hips, he used the leeway in the swing to pull me onto his cock. When the swing moved back, he’d come almost all the way out before pulling me back again. Back and forth I went, his cock sliding without hindrance since he’d gotten me so copiously wet and ready for him.

  The glide of the sling, the slide of his cock, the way his pelvis thumped into me at the end of every stroke—it was beautiful, incredible, divine. Once again, something that felt like nothing else. The way my hands were above me, grasping the handholds, my feet in the stirrups, keeping my legs opened for him, his grip so tight on me, moving my body and taking me exactly the way he wanted—all of it wound the coil of pleasure inside me so acutely, it was a little like pain.

  My body clamped down on him, hard, and I made a sound that meant I was about to climax.

  ‘Don’t come until I say.’ Even though his face was harsh, the tendons in his neck standing out, his teeth gritted with the need to come, he wanted to prolong it. To control it.

  ‘I can’t. It’s too good. Oh God, it feels so good.’ My inner walls were pulsing.

  ‘You come only when I say. Your orgasms are mine,’ he snarled, voice like gravel, pulling me even harder onto him.

  I shed copious tears; I cried out and protested. I babbled. I called his name.

  Then I heard those three little words.

  The best three words in the English language.

  ‘Come for me.’ His cock jerked inside me as he began to release. ‘Come for me, my lover.’

  I screamed as I let go, the pleasure exploding outwards. I felt it in my fingers and toes, my breasts, my throat. I felt it everywhere. I felt him everywhere.

  Exactly where I wanted him to be.

  * * * * *

  I was doing a good impersonation of a gooey puddle on the sofa about twenty minutes later when Greg walked into the room. He looked fresh and as if he could take on the world. His vamp recuperation powers were incredible. No rolling over and snoring for him. There are a few drawbacks to having a vampire boyfriend; mostly, it’s pretty freaking incredible.

  ‘Everyone should have sex in swings,’ I announced. ‘All the time.’

  Greg lip-curved at me in a way that made the gooiest parts of the gooey puddle that was me tingle. I was going to recuperate in just one minute.

  ‘By the way, how are we going to hide the hooks?’ I asked. ‘It’ll be kind of suspicious to have four macramé potholders dangling from the ceiling.’

  ‘We don’t hide them.’

  ‘How’s that going to work, Dr Morgan?’

  ‘It’ll work very well because as of now, we won’t be inviting anyone over.’

  ‘What about Mel and Scott?’

  ‘Since you tell Mel everything, she’ll find out about your new toy. She’ll tell Scott. Then they’ll be over here checking it out and asking one thousand questions.’

  I made a face. Melanie and I did tell
each other everything. The one exception being that I hadn’t told her Greg was a vampire. And what a big fat exception that was. The fewer people who knew, the safer it was for Greg. It bugged me, though, because Mel and I were like thieves—all thick and stuff.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me if they know we have a sex sling,’ continued Greg, noticing my inner turmoil and attempting to stop me stewing over it. ‘They’d better not attempt to use it, though. Or there’ll be hell to pay.’

  He succeeded in his mission. I tried not to laugh. ‘It is washable, you know.’

  It was his turn to scrunch up his face. ‘Don’t care. No one’s going in there but you.’

  I raised two eyebrows at him. ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve created a monster.’ Which he couldn’t have been too unhappy about because he pounced on me. Tickled me. Spanked my butt when I attempted to twist away from him. Then dragged me off to the chin-up-assister room and let the monster out to play.

  Chapter Four

  One month later.

  I swayed to the music, closing my eyes and swivelling my hips. The living room was dark, save for a few candles giving off a warm glow in the corner.

  I’d come home to an empty apartment. Meaning to turn on my tunes and get some domestic chores done, I had managed the first part, but then I’d been captured by the beat and ended up dancing around the living room. I’d killed the lights, lit the candles and let the mood of the afro swing music (a melding of many things—mostly Caribbean music with African-influenced British hip hop and rap) completely take me over. They say you should dance like no one’s watching. That’s exactly what I was doing.

  I was making infinity shapes with my hips and had my arms raised in the air when the front door opened.

  Greg filled the doorway. Big, astonishingly beautiful man. Wearing charcoal chinos and a light blue shirt—the long sleeves rolled up, exposing his corded forearms—he looked magnificent and delectable. In the past, I’d wondered when I would get used to seeing him, when my breath would stop catching in my throat every time I laid eyes on him, when my heart would stop doing strange manoeuvres in my chest, and my girl parts would quit doing clenchy, quivery things whenever he was in my vicinity.

  I’d stopped wondering a while back, realising the answer was at no point in time. I would never become blasé about seeing Dr Greg Morgan.

  He stepped in and closed the door behind him, his gaze not leaving my person. He stared so intently and with such hunger, he raised goose bumps on my arms and made my nipples harden. Narrowing his eyes, he zeroed in on my breasts, not needing to utilize his heightened vampire senses to see how he was affecting me. My stretchy camisole top sans bra hid nothing.

  Despite my hardening and puckering, clenching and quivering, I managed not to miss a beat. I did alter my dancing style slightly, though. Before I’d danced like no one was watching. Now I danced like Greg Morgan was watching. Meaning, I really put my back into it.

  I became the music; I was sound—a frequency graph, undulating, wavelike, from my feet to my chest.

  By the looks of things, Greg appreciated my frequency.

  The song finished, and he stalked towards me. Upon reaching me, he traced his fingertips along the line of my collarbones. Turning his hand, he brushed the backs of his knuckles down the side of my body, skimming the curve of my breast along the way. Then his palm caressed a long line over my hip and down my thigh. Back up again. It splayed out over my hip and squeezed, firm and possessive. He grasped my other hip and pulled me to him, pressing me against his big hard body, eliciting a shiver and a gasp from me.

  Another song had started: “On and On” by Eamon. It was an older song, circa early 2000s, and probably belonged on a different playlist. But boy, was it good music for pressing to. While Eamon sang about exploring the bedroom floor over and over, we held on to and ground against one another.

  Greg and I used to go to salsa clubs to dance. When I’d first met him, I’d already been taking salsa classes. Greg, with his part-Spanish heritage, had been doing all sorts of Latin dancing since forever. Recently, we’d been doing less of the fast footwork and twirling and had gotten into the closer, slower, sultrier Bachata style of dancing. I love dancing any way with Greg. At the moment, the almost-nonexistent foot movements, along with plenty of body contact and all the pressing was totally doing it for me.

  It was totally doing it for Greg, too, judging by his erection, living large and loud between us. He bent his knees and dragged it up along my pulsing parts.

  Sighing with pleasure, I undulated against him with that wavelike motion he liked so much. My fingers splayed open and I pushed them up from the base of his neck and into his hair, grasping when I got there.

  The deep sound he made in his throat drove me wild with want. He palmed the back of my head, his fingers brushing my nape before clamping firmly around my neck. He pressed the side of his face to mine.

  ‘Need you.’ The way he uttered those two words was almost savage.

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed.

  The rest of our dance was done in our bed. Horizontal-mambo style. With plenty of sighing and growling, undulating and grasping, pressing and coming and coming and coming.

  Greg was insatiable.

  You would never hear one complaint from me on that score.

  ‘My God, I love coming home to you.’ This was said to me much later, as I lay comfily inside an envelope composed entirely of vampire Greg.

  I answered in kind and thought, My God, I’m so happy!

  Half an hour after that, having finished eating my dinner, I was sprawled on the sofa, checking messages on my phone. I clicked on one from Alexi, the owner of the gym I frequent. In the past, I’ve described Alexi as a blond, chiselled-featured, brick shithouse. Inside his huge, muscled, scary exterior, though, he’s a sweet guy. Not that most people ever find that out.

  For some reason, since the day we’d met, he’d taken on the self-appointed role of being my protector. That was the first day I’d visited his gym. I’d also dropped a kettlebell on my toe. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for me.

  B.G., he used to keep me safe from lecherous men. Now that Greg was around, Alexi only had to worry about the weighty metal objects.

  He’d sent me a photo of his two-year-old niece, Katia. Alexi’s sister, her husband, and their baby Katia had recently immigrated to Australia from Russia. The second I spied the image, I said, ‘Ooooh.’ The kidlet was too cute for words: all curly blonde ringlets, chubby cheeks, huge hazel eyes and dimples. The next part of the message from Alexi was a string of love-heart emojis. He was head-over-heels for Katia. Such a softie!

  I fired off a text, telling him she was THE cutest thing I’d ever seen. And then another message, asking if he’d started training her yet.

  I received his reply immediately. The minute 0.2 kg weights arrive I will begin training.

  I sent a LOL! Along with a GIF of a toddler doing the clean-and-jerk with a plastic barbell, before tossing it on the floor and doing a celebratory fist pump.

  I got a laughing GIF, then, Come to gym tomorrow. I have oiled elliptical trainer just for you. This was followed up by a GIF of some guy jumping on a treadmill that had been set on full speed. You know the ones, where the person face-plants, flies off the end of the machine and smashes into the nearest wall. Alexi is obsessed with gym-fail GIFs.

  I laughed and then told him to bugger off re: the elliptical trainer. He’s aware of how much I despise that machine.

  I received a LOL and then we sent each other good night stickers to end the conversation.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ said Greg as he strode into the living room, his brows all furrowed down. He handed me an empty vacutainer tube. ‘Whose was this?’

  My own brows furrowed. Greg and I had a nice system going. I brought him blood from work, so he didn’t have to feed on four-legged creatures. Or two-legged ones that started with “hu” and ended with “man.”

  Sometimes I
brought blood packs from donors whose blood had been tested and discarded after being found to contain a virus of some sort. Greg was immune to viruses, so there were no problems there. Other times, it was vacutainer tubes I had collected from my colleagues.

  I didn’t take blood from my workmates for the sole purpose of feeding my boyfriend. I had typed the white cells of my co-workers and often used their blood for clinical testing or research. I used my own, also. Probably too often, as evidenced by the track marks on my left arm. Since it had hurt last time due to the tissue scarring, I’d decided to give my vein a break. Not to mention what other people might assume about me if they saw said track marks.

  Anyway, once I’d extracted the white cells I needed, the red stuff was left over. That was what I gave Greg. As I’d explained to him when I’d first brought him blood, I didn’t write the donors’ names on the tubes. There were only numbers. That way, if someone tasted particularly yummy to him, he wouldn’t be inclined to track them down and drink them all up.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ was my response to his enquiry.

  He sat beside me, angling his body so he faced me. Taking a deep breath and sighing it out, he said, ‘This person is sick, Ana.’

  Vampires developed special abilities. What these abilities were depended on the individual vampire. Greg could sense damage in a body and heal it. Ruptured organs and broken bones, he could fix. He’d discovered this ability when he’d found me mangled and busted up at the bottom of a cliff after what would have been a fatal car accident. He’d always been a healer, and his vampire mojo had strengthened that talent. He could also detect things such as viruses, bacteria and other anomalies in blood. However, his powers had no effect on them. We’d tried.

  I’m a scientist; I’m going to experiment. It’s a given.

  I was hit with a terrible foreboding. My gut dropped to my feet. ‘What do you think it is?’

  There was a pause and a grave look. ‘Cancer,’ he answered.

  My body went cold. No. No, no, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.