Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
She chose me. She trusted me. She knew that I would hold her secrets safe, that I wouldn’t judge, that I would understand.
And like Bitrus had warned, this has opened up a new obsession in me. It’s made her my obsession. It’s made me want to make her mine in every way possible, a feeling so deep and solid that it surprises me, but it’s true all the same.
There’s only one thing left to figure out.
Can I trust her?
Can I do the things I want to do, reveal the person I truly am without her getting scared and running away? The fear is normal when you deal with a vampire, but I need to know how malleable her fear is.
Can she embrace her fear, and in the end, embrace my darkness?
Once we’re deep on the other side of the city in Dorsoduro, heading north toward my house, I finally put my hand on the small of her back. Her skin burns me through her dress, a heat that spreads up my arm and makes my head feel hot and muddled. Forget her being afraid, the effect she has on me is terrifying.
“Where are we going?” she asks as we walk up a narrow street and she peers curiously at the bars and cafes we pass.
“You’re coming home with me,” I tell her, keeping my voice low.
She glances at me, her expression unreadable. Then her lips give way to a smile. “Okay,” she says quietly.
I suppose I could have asked her instead of told her but I didn’t want her answer to be no. I didn’t think it would be no, at any rate, not after she came all over my hands and mouth. She wants more of it, just as much as I do, and I will bring her so much more than she bargained for.
We don’t talk during the walk. It feels pointless when I want to use my tongue and mouth in other ways. It isn’t until we get to my house that she says, “Holy shit. This is where you live?”
I can’t help but feel a bit of pride as I look it over. “It used to be a hotel, the Oltre il Giardino, until I bought it. Before then it belonged to a storied woman called Alma Mahler who lived in it at the turn of the century.” Of course I don’t mention that I not only knew Alma but was one of her lovers.
We walk through the small square leading to the front door, bushes of black roses surrounding us and cloaking us in their sweet scent, and step inside. The hotel itself was white and bright to be welcoming to guests, but I painted the interior a dark grey, with lots of red and black accents and walnut floors. It’s dark and moody, which makes it much easier on the eyes, and on the soul.
Dahlia’s attention immediately goes to the grand living area where I keep all my prized possessions that I’ve collected over the years.
“And this is all on a teacher’s salary?” she asks in a hush as she looks over all the rare paintings on the wall, the sculptures throughout the room, all the books placed artfully on the shelves, the collection of antique musical instruments by the fireplace. For a moment I get slammed with déjà vu, as if I’ve seen this all before, seen Dahlia standing by the instruments in her burgundy dress, marveling over them, with her hair up just as it is.
Then before I can grasp the image, the sense of acute familiarity, it fades like sand through my fingers.
“I’m not just a teacher,” I admit, slowly walking toward her, trying to ignore how painfully hard I already am, my cock pressing against my jeans. I don’t even think I’ll make it to the bedroom. It’s fine. The rug in front of the fireplace will do.
And then I’m hit again with another image, this time I’m fucking her on the floor, taking her hard from behind, a violin bow beside me and for a moment I think I’m back in London. With Lucy. But when I look at Dahlia, running her slender fingertips with the chipped black polish over the edge of my harp, I know it’s not Lucy. They aren’t the same person. They don’t look a thing alike.
Besides, I gave up on ever seeing her again a long time ago.
“So…” Dahlia says, looking at me curiously. “If you’re not just a teacher, what else do you do? Raid museums?” She pauses by a stack of old music books beside the mantle and then gives me a bright smile, realization dawning on her face. “Wait a minute. All those donations you get at the library. They aren’t from anonymous donors. They’re all from you. You bring them in.”