Tick...Tick...Tick... Challenge #174 -- PG-13

[librarian_7]

AN: Yeah, so this challenge piece was meant for January. It was written then, and the lovely and talented Allegrita had given it her (much needed!) fine-toothed comb, when, well, I fell ill. And now, 3 months later, I’m actually feeling well enough to do the next edit, and post this puppy. I hope you find it enjoyable!

Tick…Tick…Tick…

It’s cold in the club tonight. Okay, it’s always cold in here, and you suppose that’s how the vamps like it. Not so easy on all the exposed freshies’ flesh, though. You look around at the crowd, shopping. You, and a couple of other freelancers, hundred percenters figured out recently that you only have about eight minutes to seal the deal, once you make eye contact.

Eight minutes, to take it from first contact to—something more. First impressions are key, and it’s not just the impressions you want his teeth making in your neck.

That one. Is that one headed your way?

No.

Ah, but there’s another who might be suitable. He’s looking around, he’s turning toward you. Eye contact.

In your head, a mental timer starts.

Tick.

Minute one.

You spend a few seconds looking at each other. He’s maybe 20 feet away, and you can’t see everything through the crowd, but he looks presentable enough. Medium height, handsome—well, aren’t they all?—nicely cut, sandy brown hair, well-dressed but not pretentious. Something in the way he stands, the way he moves, makes you peg him as a little older. He’s no newbie with a fresh set of fangs he wants to break in. Good. You can’t stand amateurs.

And because you’re no amateur, either, you resist the urge to fidget. There was a time you might have casually lifted a hand to smooth your hair, and that sort of thing would be disastrous with a vamp like this. Gauche, showing off your wrist. Just last week, you’d forgotten and done that, out of nervousness. And the vamp had looked you up and down, dismissively, and turned away.

Tonight—seconds ticking by as you size each other up, and you see his nostrils flare slightly, trying to catch your scent in this crowded space.

He’s going to come closer.

Tick.

Minute two.

Oh, yes, he’s got some decades on him. It’s the way he glides through the crowd, as though everyone else has ceased to exist.

This guy’s the real deal, and he’s going to be good, you just know it. He could have moved to your side like smoke, so fast you never even saw it, but he’s drawing it out, making that few seconds, those few feet, into a demonstration of his power.

And if that doesn’t send a shiver down your spine, you don’t know what would.

Then he’s standing in front of you. Close, close enough you have to look up, if you don’t want to stare at his shirt front. Not that it isn’t a nice shirt. Crisp, classic, open a little at the throat. The skin showing is creamy and flawless.

You smile a little, and look up into his face.

He’s tilting his head from side to side, taking in your scent. If he doesn’t like it, if it doesn’t strike him in just the right way, the two of you are done, and he’ll be looking elsewhere for tonight’s blood.

Tick.

Minute three.

That damn timer in your head rolls over another minute. But the vamp is smiling. You guess he likes what he smells. Maybe those expensive toiletries, the ones you heard some of the top freshies in town use—the ones that are unscented but claim to magnify the good parts of your own scent—were worth the money.

The tip of his tongue darts out, runs across his lips, and you find it almost unbearably sexy.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble. You melt even more.

“Hey,” you reply.

In response, he gives a subtle lift of his eyebrows. Asking you a question. The question. Without anything so obvious as, “Can I drink your blood?”

You nod, just barely, and give in to the temptation to wet your lips, not caring what it might do to your lipstick.

As he moves in closer, you no longer notice that timer in your head saying,

Tick.

Minute four.

You think he’s going to take your hand, and lead you to one of those little curtained alcoves in the back that the club so generously provides. The vamps call them feeding rooms, but the freshies just call them “bite boxes.” They aren’t actually all that private—everyone knows there’s a camera in each one, which is a good thing, really. They provide the illusion of privacy, and since the bite can be—or at least seem like—a very intimate thing, that illusion is good. It’s also nice to know that if things go south, there’s at least a chance someone might see it, and come to your rescue. Vampire bar managers really hate having to clean up dead freshies.

But he doesn’t, after all, make any move to take you from the bar stool. You guess privacy isn’t high on his list.

You always try to sit on these barstools like a lady. Your skirt is pretty short, and you don’t want to flash people your undies. But he nudges your legs apart with his thigh, and moves closer. It’s exciting, and it’s a good bet that right now, your arousal is hitting his nose like the aroma of a freshly corked wine.

And it must be working for him, too, because his eyes are starting to turn silver.

Tick.

Minute five.

He begins with caresses, running cool hands over your arms, savoring the texture of your skin, and you can feel every touch as though your nerves all ran straight to your core. He traces a finger along the neckline of your dress, and unexpectedly dips a long finger into your cleavage. Such a liberty should insult you, but his touch, so intimate and so public, only excites you more, and you can’t hold back a low moan. Not so low he didn’t hear it, though, because he smiles just enough that you can see the tips of his fangs, gleaming white against the red of his lips.

As if that weren’t enough, he runs the ball of his thumb across your mouth, very lightly, and you can’t help but part your lips for him.

You feel like you could do this for hours, letting him explore your skin with those cool, clever fingers.

The noise of the club seems to fade away, and you close your eyes, drifting under his touch. You lose track of the seconds running by.

Tick.

Minute six.

So it catches you a little by surprise, when he leans in and lays his mouth against your skin. He trails a delicate line of kisses along your collarbones, and then comes to rest where your throat meets your shoulder. He sucks gently at the skin there, and you gasp. That pleases him. You can tell, because you can feel his mouth curve into a smile.

Then he raises his head and looks you in the eyes again. It’s your turn to tilt your head to one side, inquiring.

He still looks amused, and he leans forward to put those cool lips on yours. A soft brush, at first, mouths closed. But then you feel his tongue sweep across your lips, and again, you open for him.

The kiss deepens, and he slips one hand behind your head, holding you in place. Not that you’re trying to get away. Far from it. You bring your own hands up to curl into the lapels of his jacket.

This is unheard of. Vamps don’t kiss freshies. They may caress them, playing with their food, but it’s usually pretty impersonal. You overheard a couple of them talking once, saying that arousal perfumes the blood. And then they laughed. You thought you didn’t have many illusions left, but this vamp is taking things to a new level. And you would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

You become aware that his other hand is stealing up between your thighs, underneath your skirt. You ought to break the kiss and slap his face, but you don’t.

After a small eternity of this, he ends the kiss, and whispers, “Are you ready?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod. You stretch your neck, letting his hand guide your head to one side. And before you realize that he’s moved, his fangs have pierced your skin.

Tick.

Minute seven.

It’s a jolt, it’s a rush, the way it always is. But this time seems even better. The fangs come out, and his mouth seals off the wounds, pulling your blood into his body. And his hand, between your thighs, is teasing and exciting you. You can feel the tension mounting, coming close to release as he drinks.

This. This is the knife edge of danger, that place where you don’t know if he’s going to stop, or if he’s going to drink your blood until your heart slows and stops. This is the bliss that comes from being in the arms of a dangerous predator. You chose this, and you’re not fighting against it. But you can’t help being a little afraid.

Tick.

Minute eight.

All too soon, there’s the silky feel of his tongue lapping at the wounds, stopping bleeding. No one knows quite how that works, but it does. He lifts his head again, and his eyes are lazy and laughing. His hand moves from the back of your head to curve around her shoulders, supporting you. With the other, he smooths down your skirt, and that movement makes you blush, wondering if anyone saw everything that was going on. A quick glance around tells you, though, that everyone is absorbed in their own activities.

The vampire – and oh, God, you don’t even know his name – raises his hand to sniff at his fingers. And that makes you blush even harder.

He reaches around and slaps the bar, to get the bartender’s attention. “A large orange juice for the lady,” he says. He cuts his eyes over to you, and adds, “Make it to go.”

“Thanks,” you say, although whether for the orange juice or what came before it, you’re not entirely sure.

He smiles at you again. “Give me your number.” It’s not really a request.

You fumble on the bar for the little clamshell clasp bag you carried tonight. Not much in it. A credit card, your lipstick and powder, and a few – you really hate to call them business cards. That sounds mercenary. Calling cards, perhaps. An old-fashioned term, but it sounds better. You fish one out, turn, and hand it to him.

He tucks it away in an inner pocket of his jacket. “Get your stuff. I’m putting you in a taxi home.”
You gather up your purse, and the large foam cup of orange juice, and stand up from the barstool. Walking through the club, his hand at the small of your back feels like the only thing tethering you to the earth.

“I’ll be in touch, ” he says as he hands you into a cab.

Eight minutes. They say it only takes eight minutes, to make a connection.

[Lilly]

Holy HELL, Lucky! This is exquisite!

I'm about at a loss for words. I have to read it again.

[Ella713]

Oh my stars this is really good!!!

[allegrita]

Lucky, when I read your draft way back in January, I was utterly blown away. (And in case anybody's wondering, my suggestions were minor, more in the way of adding a bit of polish to a perfect diamond. Just sayin'. ) I love this look into the "pro" freshie experience. It's so visceral. Your story grabbed me and took me along on this roller coaster of an experience. Eight minutes. What a rush!

[MickLifeCrisis]

That was terrific, Lucky! Whew, it's hot in here. As always, your descriptions put me right into the middle of your story, carrying me along.

Loved this! So glad you felt up to finishing and posting!

Take care!

[choccyterri]

Oh goodness, Lucky, this is all kinds of wonderful. The choices, the sweet seduction, I think we're all as drawn in as this young lady. What a mesmerising scene. Thank you so much for sharing... and a wish that you continue feeling up to sharing your wonderful talent.

[Lilly]

I just had to bump this back up.

Not that I read it again or anything...

[allegrita]

Well, since you bumped it, I had to reread it too!