Her Vampire Lord Read online

  Her Vampire Lord

  Ines Johnson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Want More Midnight Doms?

  Also by Ines Johnson

  About the author

  1

  Gaius

  “Master Gaius, please may I suck your cock?“

  My cock twitches in my pants, as though it will answer the woman’s desperate plea. I’m only semi aroused. Most of my blood is still in my brain because my mind is elsewhere. That is why I came here in the first place; I need more blood in my system.

  “I’ve been such a good girl, Master Gaius,” says a different feminine voice from the first. “Please? Just the tip? I’ll suck it so good, I promise.”

  I open my eyes and take a minute to focus. It's dark in the private room. I don't need much light to see. My superior sight means I need only a pinprick for me to track my prey.

  They are right where I left them, inside this locked room with leather padding for walls, chains dangling from the ceiling, and sex toys littering the floor. Both women are on the floor. Knees spread. Hands on thighs, bound together with fur-lined cuffs. Nipples tight, begging for attention. The dark buds remind me of the berries that should be growing in my vineyard and my mind wanders again.

  For centuries, I have been able to grow grapes in any soil I dig my fingers into, be it the briny regions of France or the saline coasts of Spain. But here, in the dry desert of southwest America, my vines are refusing to yield.

  “Please, Master Gaius, may I come?”

  Once more, my attention is called back to the present. I focus fully on the two women on the floor. Their bodies are trembling, like an earthquake is waking beneath them, ready to break them apart. The earthquake is a pair of Sybian sex machines.

  The two women sit astride the Sybians’ saddles. Nestled between their thighs is a dildo with a ribbed base that vibrates against their clit at the front and their anus at the back. The controller is set to a low hum, just enough to tease but not send anyone into orgasmic spasms. Unless the rider has been astride for a long time.

  Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve been here for at least a half an hour, riding these women. The scent of their sex fills the room. The air is humid with their moist juices and sweat. Their areolas are bubblegum pink and Hershey brown from the pleasure. Their labia are more red than pink from the delectable abuse of the machine.

  On their asses are dark marks from the flogger I used on them. The device sits at my feet now. Hershey Brown’s gaze is fastened on the device as she pants her desire for more. Bubblegum Pink’s eyes are closed, her head lolling back. On her neck are two twin pricks that have puckered another shade of pink; a tiny trail of red blood meanders down her long throat.

  She tasted like a stick of gum after the flogging. Sweet at the first bite, but the flavor only lasted a few moments. I liked my food saccharine. Hence, the Sybians.

  The girls should now be ripe for the taking. The endorphins should have flooded their blood by now, making for a satisfying two-course dinner. But I am an admitted food snob. I like my meals cooked perfectly.

  I turn the dial from low to medium. The two women mewl. They’re both on the cusp of coming. Hershey Brown’s eyes flash golden, her inner animal eager to come out to play.

  "I'll let the last one who comes suck my cock,” I say.

  Their purrs are guttural. I can see their pussies shiver at the thought, then shiver in earnest as I turn the dial up to high. Their mewls sound closer to the growls of wolves. I watch impassively, my fangs twitching more than my dick. I want them in my mouth, their endorphin-rich, sweet blood. Having me in their mouths?

  I give an internal shrug.

  Sex has always been a game for me. One that I could never afford to lose. If I didn’t bring forth the pleasure for her, then there would only be pain for me.

  The buzzing of the sex machines pulls me back to the matter at hand. The two pussy cats are shivering, and the dial has one more setting. Asshole that I am, I switch the dial past high and wait for them to erupt.

  Their mewling fills my ears. The scent of their juices fills my nostrils. The iron from their blood touches my tongue. But they hold out. I’m not sure if it’s the competition between them or if they just really want to suck my cock. I don’t really care so long as their hands stay bound. To have either of their claws on my flesh would bring back memories I have locked down tight.

  I rise, waiting for the inevitable eruption. I think Bubblegum Pink will be the first to crash into orgasm. I loosen my belt buckle and take a step towards Hershey Brown.

  A buzzing in my pants stops me. I look down at my phone. When I see the name on the caller ID, I immediately hit talk.

  "Is she there?"

  The caller doesn't even bother with hello. She has manners, I've seen them first hand. But she is a single-minded woman.

  "No, Marechal,” I say. “Your sister isn't here."

  My brother Hadrian would never allow Carignan, his new eternal bride, to be unclothed before another. He has her locked inside his own private dungeon at our estates tonight, sating her more base needs in the privacy of our home.

  "When do you expect her back?" asks Marechal.

  This is the problem with turning new vampires. Humans are so connected in this new world. People text, snap, chat, and DM constantly, not allowing anyone the ability to disappear. It would all be so simple if Marechal was made to simply forget about her sister. But Cari wouldn’t hear of it.

  Truth be told, I don’t want to hear of it either. If Marechal were mind-wiped and made to forget her sister, she would have to forget me too. Though we’ve only had two encounters in person, I would sorely miss the disdain and dismissal in her gaze when she looks at me.

  “I need to talk to her,” says Marechal in her clipped, business voice. The woman is a logical, practical, methodical scientist through and through.

  I haven’t seen her make a single emotional move since I met her. She never has a hair out of place, not even when her sister went missing and her brother was in an accident. Marechal had taken a deep breath, begun a checklist of what to do, and assigned each of my brothers a task. I had wanted to snatch the pad and pen out of her hand, tug at the strands of her perfectly coiffed hair, and break the buttons of her starched shirt.

  But I don’t play with humans any longer. They’re too fragile for my particular tastes. Plus, I never enjoyed wiping their minds when things got a little rough, which they always did with me.

  “They’ll be back from their honeymoon soon,” I soothe, lying easily.

  Hadrian likely has his bride bound to a Saint Andrew’s Cross and is fucking the living daylights out of her. I can’t very well tell her older sister that hunch. Nor can I invite her over to see that her sister is perfectly fine, because she isn’t. Not yet.

  Newly turned vampires are hungry beasts. I
t takes a while for them to gain control over their animal instincts. If Marechal happened upon Carignan during this adolescent stage of her new life, where she is completely uninhibited, indulgent, and self-centered, it would turn out bloody.

  “Where are you?” Marechal asks. “It sounds like you’re at an animal shelter filled with cats.”

  I turn back to the scene in one of Club Toxic’s private sex dungeons. I’d nearly forgotten about the two pussies on the fucking machines. They are sweating profusely as they try not to come.

  “I am,” I say. “I’m at a benefit for wayward animals.”

  “You? I didn’t take you for a philanthropist.”

  I’m not. “I give back.” I don’t.

  I care only about my pleasure and the wellbeing of my family. Carignan is now part of my family. She is my sister, and I will protect her as I do my brothers.

  Hmm? Does that make Marechal my sister as well?

  I don’t like that thought. I’m more interested in what Marechal would look like if she were on one of the machines. Riding it without a stitch of fabric on her body. Her hair down and free. Her head thrown back as I slap her nipples until they are tight peaks.

  “I’m going to get off now,” Marechal says, and I nearly choke. “You’ll call me the moment they walk in the door?”

  Oh, she is still talking about her sister and Hadrian. “I give you my word.”

  “I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t a kidnapping, you know.”

  That is another thought I like: grabbing Marechal and absconding with her against her will. Modern women say they don’t like that, but the billion-dollar romance novel industry begs to differ. Women like to be told what to do. I like to be the one telling them.

  “You never told me when you wanted me to come over,” she says.

  “Come over?”

  “To look at your vine.”

  I’ve had two dripping, mewling pussies at my feet all night. But at Marechal’s words, my dick goes instantly hard.

  “You said it’s going through a rough patch?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my vine.”

  “You said it had rot; you showed me, remember?”

  Right. She’s talking about the vineyard. My pristine grapes are having trouble in the acrid, dry Tucson soil.

  “The Palmezzos had trouble with that soil too,” Marechal goes on. “When I was a kid, the migrants who worked the land said that it was cursed.”

  I am a centuries-old vampire. I have seen more than my fair share of the unexplained, and lived long enough to learn the explanation. There is magic in the world, but there is no such thing as a—

  “But you and I know there is no such thing as a curse,” Marechal says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. I’ll be over tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come to you,” I say.

  “It would be much easier if I studied the vine in its native soil.”

  “Too dangerous. I mean, I wouldn’t want to take you away from your business.”

  “I do have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come over at sundown.”

  “Fine,” she says. “Just let me know when you hear from my sister. And do something about those cats.”

  And with that, she clicks off.

  I turn my attention back to the dripping pussies. Hershey Brown’s eyes are rolling back in her head. With a loud thud, she falls over. Bubblegum Pink grins in triumph. I guess I’ll be fucking her mouth for the rest of the evening, though my dick has softened now that Marechal is no longer in my ear.

  I reach for my belt again, but a second thud fills my ears. Bubblegum Pink has collapsed on the floor, her body shuddering from a toe-curling orgasm. When the tremors stop, both women lie in comatose heaps on the ground.

  I’m not put out. I call one of the attendants to see to their aftercare. Then I pour myself a glass of wine. The color is a brown that shifts to a shade of purple in the low light. It is the exact color of Marechal Durand’s eyes.

  2

  Marechal

  I find it illuminating that my best work is done in the dark. I was afraid of the dark at the start of my life. Even during the daytime, I found the absence of light when I closed my eyes terrifying. My mother told me that I’d been born with my eyes open, needing to see everything. It’s one of the last things I remember her telling me.

  That, and that I needed to take care of my baby sister.

  Carignan was placed in my arms on a dark night. As the moon had risen high in the sky, I watched my mother close her eyes for the last time. When she did, I did as I was told. I didn’t take my eyes off my baby sister. I’d kept that promise for the last twenty years.

  Then my dad died, the business began to fail, and now my cup runneth over.

  I reach for my cell phone, to text my baby sister, to call her, to find out where the hell she is and what time she’ll be home tonight. I already know that she won’t answer. I know because I’ve been calling her nonstop for the past week. I raised her to be a little too like me: stubborn and willful, with a mind dead set on achieving her goal.

  Through the window, I can see the day laborers making their way onto the vineyard. It’s grape-picking season. Another bang up year for the Durand Vineyards. But will it be enough to save the business my father worked all his life to build?

  My papa left the business in my hands to run. My maman left my sister in my arms to guide. In a matter of days, I might manage to lose them both.

  Back in my room, I stare at my face in the mirror. The bags under my eyes weigh more than I do. They’ve been there since I was a teenager, taking care of an infant at night while going to school by day, and working in the vineyard’s labs after school. Luckily, my skin has enough of the Mediterranean Sea in it that it’s easy to conceal my workaholic tendencies. I balance the dark circles below with eyeshadow and mascara above.

  With my face made up, I gather my dark hair into a tight bun. Using a few pins, I secure any wayward strands that dare defy the style. Doing up the last button in my starched, collared shirt, I run my hands over my fitted skirt and finally feel put together. No, it’s not the most practical outfit to wear for someone who runs a vineyard, but most of my time is spent in the lab.

  To complete the outfit, I step into a pair of vintage high heels. The shoes belonged to my mother. They add a touch of femininity to my boss bitch demeanor. And they remind me of the only maternal touch I’ve had in my life.

  Both the sun and the moon are in the sky when I step outside. The sun is lingering on its way out. The moon is chomping at the bit to take over in the darkening sky.

  The stems of my heels are thick enough that my shoes don’t sink into the ground. I make my way down the straight lines of vines. The uniformity of the rows settles me. The plumpness of the berries makes me feel light. The fruit has ripened exactly on my schedule.

  “Happy harvest, Ms. Durand.”

  Zahara’s gaze isn’t on me. It’s on the berries that are about to fall off the vine into the basket she carries.

  “I’m glad to see you again,” I say.

  Zahara and her family have been coming up every harvest from Mexico and parts of Central America since before I was born. Like most of the other migrant women, Zahara is dressed in a peasant wrapped skirt in the colors of the desert. Reds, oranges, browns, and greens. Her loose and colorful fashion is like night and day to my dark, constraining threads.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father,” she says, finally catching my eyes. “He was a good man.”

  “Thank you,” I say, breaking the eye contact.

  My family is not a subject I like to bring up in business. Besides, there is a lot of work to be done. It would be more efficient if I had the grapes mechanically picked. But there are some traditions I prefer to keep.

  There are a few dozen of Zahara’s people walking out into the rows of vines. More than the last harvest. For the first time, there are males.

  “I see we have some new fac
es this year,” I say.

  One of the men looks over at us just then. He’s too young to catch my interest—likely he’s just out of his teens, like Zahara. But he is man enough to catch my gaze and hold it for a few seconds. There is no interest in his dark eyes. He looks away from me to Zahara. She glances down rather than holding his gaze as he approaches.

  “Is the man of the house here yet, miss? I would like to speak with him about some matters.” His voice is deeper than I expect. This young man probably had to grow up quickly, like me. Too bad he wasn’t taught manners.

  “I’m the man of the house. It’s Ms. Durand. Or Boss, if you prefer.”

  The inner corners of his eyes pull, a clear sign of irritation. Without any further word, the man turns on his heel and walks back into the fields.

  Well, if he doesn’t like working for a woman, he can walk out the gate. Zahara is still on the ground, plucking away, a small smile playing at her lips.

  “I don’t think he’ll be the one to buy me the World’s Best Boss coffee mug this year,” I say.

  Zahara’s smile grows wider, but she still doesn’t look up at me. The movement lights up her face. If she ever wanted, she could be a model. Her looks are wasted in the vineyard.

  Not that I would ever encourage a woman to make her way in the world on anything but her brain.

  I know I have a pretty face. I look exactly like my mother. But I was always more interested in blending grapes than I was in kissing boys. Sipping at a boy’s lips never gave me as much pleasure as the first sip of sweet red wine.