Ouch! My Vampire Doms Keep Biting Me (My Vampire Doms #1)

by Calista Jayne

Midnight’s chill seeps into my second-story bedroom through the open window. I sit up in bed, groggy. I was nearly asleep. Is it the cold that woke me, or a sound? I listen carefully, watching the shadows in my room. The house should be empty; Dale is attending an event tonight. I should have told him I was coming home early, but I didn’t want him to ask prying questions or judge me like he always does. Having to confess that the senator’s son he tried to match me with turned into a total creep would only make my stepdad disappointed in me. Again. “Autumn, would it kill you to behave, to act demure, for one date?” he’d ask. I am not a princess, I always want to yell at him. And you are not a freaking king. But my mother was a queen, in her own way. My father a king. Both of them filthy rich, powerful in California, revered by other filthy rich and powerful people. But they’re dead, and now my stepfather is in charge. As long as I’m dutiful, as long as I stay out of his way and let him schmooze and wine and dine filthy rich and powerful people like my parents used to do, he’s happy. When Dale finds out I abandoned stupid Kurt You-better-put-out-because-I’m-the-senator’s-son Van Hopper, he’s going to be pissed.

Dale speaks, his voice carrying up to my window, the tone harsh. “I told you if you couldn’t handle it, you wouldn’t be useful to me any longer.” “I’m sorry,” the other man says. “I tried, but I couldn’t get them—” Dale holds up a hand and the other guy shrinks back, which puts him more in the light. I recognize his pale blond hair. Marcus Patrick. He’s on the police force. I thought he and Dale were good friends. But the way Dale’s talking to him now sounds anything but friendly. “There’s still a use for you,” Dale says, almost as if speaking to himself. “I was afraid it would come to this, but the news of your untimely death will garner sympathy—” “Dale,” Marcus says. “You wouldn’t do that. Smithy, come on.” Dale reaches into his pocket. Marcus can’t see it, but from this angle, I can. He takes something out while Marcus shakes his head. “I’ll fix it,” Marcus says. “I promise, man. Please. I’m begging you.” Dale sighs. “Fine. You can fix it.” “Thank you. Thank you,” Marcus says. “I knew you’d understand. I promise, I can get this done.” “Hey, don’t worry, man. Let’s hug it out,” Dale says. Marcus reaches forward, and even from here I can see the stark relief on his face. He looks like he’s crying. Shit. That’s intense, this tough police officer, crying by our pool? Dale hugs him, then lifts up his hand, the one that had been in his pocket. Something flashes in the pool light. A syringe. A soft sound of surprise leaves Marcus’s mouth. “What—” He topples over, his arms and...

I could wait for the ambulance to arrive and get out under the cover of its sirens, but there’s a chance Dale might come out to meet it. I can’t risk him seeing me. As far as he’s concerned, I was never here. “Be brave, Autumn.” I know it isn’t my mom talking to me. But her voice is as clear as if she’s sitting next to me in the passenger’s seat. She died ten years ago, when I was fifteen. This was her car, and I’ve always felt closer to her when I drive it. Taking a deep breath, I start the engine. I put the car into gear and roll forward, around the circular end of our driveway. “Autumn!” Dale shouts, striding toward me from the side of the house. “I didn’t know you were home.” Can I pretend I just got here? No. I’m wearing pajamas. What was I thinking? He’ll review the security footage, he’ll find out that I was home, in my room, while he was killing Marcus Patrick. He’ll guess that I saw the whole thing. Frozen with fear, I don’t move as he reaches the window and knocks on it. Rolling the window down, I fake a smile and say, “I just remembered I left my purse at the restaurant. They’re holding it for me, so I’ll be right back.” His gaze flicks past me to the passenger’s seat, where my purse sits like an accusation. “My other purse,” I say. Dale’s blue eyes, “beautiful baby blues” as Mom used to call them, harden into chips of ice. “I don’t believe you.” Before I can react, his hand is on my wrist, clenching so hard I immediately know it will leave bruises. I shouldn’t ...

I slam down the gas pedal again. “Come on, baby,” I mutter, downshifting without slowing to gain more power and speed. She gets me through. The old girl gets me through. My mom would be so proud and happy. Sorrow rips through my chest. I’m going to have to abandon the car. It’s too unique and noticeable, and Dale’s going to be looking for me. And then a fresh wave of panic and anger and sorrow follows the first. My mom’s death…after seeing what Dale did to Marcus Patrick, after hearing him on the phone with the emergency line operator…my mom’s death comes back to me. I heard a similar conversation between Dale and family friends, ten years ago. …Heart failure, they say it must have been. She just collapsed in front of me. I’m so distraught, she was my world. He wasn’t distraught. It wasn’t heart failure. It’s happening again, this time with Marcus Patrick. Dale, my stepfather, killed my mom. I blaze down the street, tears streaming from my cheeks. I don’t even know what’s causing the tears. Everything, I guess. There’s no time to analyze my emotions. I just know I need to get out of here and find somewhere to stay. Flashing red and white lights fill the gloom ahead, and seconds later, I have to pull over as an ambulance shrieks past. I check my rearview. Nobody is behind or chasing me. But give it time. Dale works within a network of very powerful men. He’s gotten away with murder before, and he’ll do everything in his power to do it again.

I pull into the parking lot behind my friend Clarissa’s apartment complex, breathing hard. My arm throbs where Dale grabbed it. Every turn of my steering wheel makes it ache more. After maneuvering into a spot, I rest my hand on my lap, breathing hard. Do I risk staying with Clarissa tonight? She’s my best friend—my only friend. Dale will probably guess that I’m here, so I can’t stay. But maybe one night would be safe, just long enough to gather my thoughts and make a plan. The other option is a hotel. But that’s expensive. Think, Autumn. I need money. Shelter. Food. Clarissa could give me food and shelter. Maybe even a couple hundred dollars if she has it on her, or she could run to the ATM for me. I check my own wallet and find it empty of cash; I always use a card. I need a plan. A real plan. But I don’t have time to make one. What do I do? Hunker the fuck down so I have time to think? Or try to think on the run? The indecision is crippling. That’s it. I have to take some action. I’ve always been good at hiding. I’ll hide out with Clarissa for a little while, then figure out next steps. Including a plan for exposing what Dale did. People need to know. But justice can never happen if he catches up with me. He’ll kill me, too. I imagine my mother in the seat next to me. “Run, sweetheart,” she says. “I don’t need justice—I just need you to live. Run and hide. Find somewhere safe.” Is that true, or is that just what I want her to say? It’s all coming from my own brain, anyw...

The bus station is well-lit, and more crowded than I would’ve expected after midnight. I stride up to the ticket booth, halting when I realize I don’t have a destination in mind. Wherever gets me the farthest away, the fastest. I need the closest big city where I can disappear. Los Angeles, preferably. The next bus for Los Angeles doesn’t leave until tomorrow afternoon. That won’t work. But San Esteban…that bus leaves in an hour. San Esteban is a few hours away, located between here and LA. It’s a shining, glittery city with a sexy reputation. I’ve never been there. Dale wouldn’t guess that I would choose it as a destination. Before I ask for a ticket, though, I stop. Cameras are probably everywhere in this station. With his connections at Altera PD, Dale would easily have someone review them. No bus ticket yet. I duck into a bathroom, breathing hard. How can I get a ticket and get out of here without Dale figuring it out? An outfit change, first of all. If I could cut and dye my hair, Fugitive style, even better. But oh, surprise surprise, I don’t happen to have freaking hair dye on hand. I put on my hoodie. I could pull the hood over my hair, but it looks too much like I’m trying to disguise myself. A woman enters the restroom with a young boy. He’s wearing a baseball cap. That could work. “Hey,” I say, “could I buy your hat from you?” The woman frowns at me and speaks rapidly in Spanish, telling me not to talk to her kid. “Please pardon me,” I say in Spanish, addressing...

Despite the outfit change and light disguise, I feel exposed. A careful viewing of camera footage would eliminate this disguise in a second. I went into the bathroom as myself and someone emerged who looks similar to me, but in different clothing…it isn’t foolproof in the slightest. A new feeling of paranoia strikes me—what if Dale put a tag or tracker in my purse? I empty it out on the seat beside me, identifying every tiny piece of clutter. Then I feel along the inside to make sure he didn’t tape anything to the inner lining or pockets. Nothing. Okay. He was probably just tracking my phone or my car. He wouldn’t have had much reason to monitor me before this. It’s not like I witnessed a murder before. At least, I never thought I had. My poor mom. She loved him, I know she did. And he hurt her. For what? Probably money. Power. Dale’s an insecure asshole and the fact that people deferred to her instead of him probably grated on his nerves.

A low, feminine moan echoes from Will’s office. I didn’t realize he had already returned from hunting. Straightening my collar, I stride down the hall. His door is cracked open, which means he wanted me to either hear the woman or smell her blood. Both, probably. Passive-aggressive asshole. Will and I used to hunt together, but I’ve pulled back and let him select the women for our playtime and feedings. Now he rubs it in my face by always taking the first bite. “That’s so hot,” the woman says. “You’re really a vampire.” I clear my throat. Will turns slowly around, blood on his lips. “What?”

Ignoring the woman and looking at Will, I say, “You didn’t tell me you’d already brought home groceries.” The woman wrinkles her nose and mouths “Groceries?” “Don’t worry, subbie, he’s rude to everyone,” Will says, patting her naked thigh. Twin punctures ooze blood at the base of her neck, another set above one of her pale pink nipples. “Get in here, Xander. I saved her legs for you.” “Where’d you find her?” I ask, pausing on the threshold. “Low Vice.” I nod, approving. We have an arrangement with Margot, the owner. We can seduce whoever we want as long as they’re safe, as long as they consent. As long as they never remember what happened to them in our library. Low Vice is the best place to find women who want to take what we give. Pain, pleasure. “Are you here to play with me?” the woman asks, her deep blue eyes meeting mine. “Only for a little while, but you’d best use honorifics if you want the release you’re craving, subbie.” Her pretty face twists in consternation. “Dom? Master? Sir?” “Sir will do.” “Yes, Sir,” she says. I should be excited, yet all I feel is bored. I inhale deeply, hoping something about the rush of blood beneath her skin will do something for me. It works, somewhat.

The next couple of hours pass in enjoyable decadence, I suppose. We have intercourse, taking her in every possible orifice. We get her off several times, and she gives us her blood. Yet it all feels rather transactional. It’s not a true power exchange; it’s more like we’re all going through the motions. When she’s limp and panting on the bed, Will asks her, “Do you remember the other part of our agreement?” “Something about forgetting,” she says with a frown. “Because you’re vampires. I still can’t believe it.” “Don’t worry, you won’t believe it for long,” I say. “This night was unforgettable, though. How are you going to make me forget?” Will has already gotten up. He goes to the wet bar at the far corner of his office and removes a small, unlabeled bottle from the collection of crystal decanters. In comparison to its brothers, this bottle is ugly, yet inconspicuous. He pours some into a sherry glass and holds it up so the woman can see it. “This is oubliette. It won’t harm you, it just makes you forget.” “Will I remember anything?” “Only what we tell you to remember,” I say. “Is there anything in particular you’d like?” “I want to be happy. I want to remember feeling powerful in my submission. I want to feel like you didn’t want to let me go but you had to.” Fuck if her words don’t cause me to feel things in my heart. I don’t love this woman. But hearing this is as piercing as the sharpest fangs. “We’ll do our best,” I tell her.

“Drink up,” Will says, handing her the sherry glass. “We’ll give you a good cover story.” She pauses with the cup next to her lips. “I haven’t done this with you before, have I?” “No,” Will says. “This was the first time.” She’s right to ask, though, because she would likely have no idea. I’ve heard of oubliette memories being recollected when coming into contact with the people involved, but that situation is rare. If she sees us again at Low Vice, she might remember a connection. We’ll have to avoid her, but our lives are long and hers is short. It will be fine. She swallows the draught and blinks up at us expectantly. I count downward in my head. Five, four, three, two…one. “Sorry,” she says, her dark eyes squinting at us in puzzlement. “I’m confused.” “You partied a little too hard,” Will says smoothly, his British accent softening as he speaks. After a hundred years living in the US, he doesn’t actually need to keep that accent, but old habits, I suppose. “You had amazing sex with two handsome men, and the pleasure will come back to you in flashes. The two men were lovely and attentive, but you ultimately decided they wouldn’t suit you for future play. However, the experience will remind you that there is good in the world, and it will keep you from accepting poor treatment from any lovers you entertain in the future.” Fuck, that isn’t bad. I raise my eyebrows at Will, nodding in approval. We should write that shit down to use in the future. The woman’s ride rolls up ...

“Don’t you want to know her name?” he asks. “It’s better if I don’t know,” I grumble. “Better if you don’t, either.” He grips the back of his already-messy black hair. “I can’t be like you. I can’t fuck without any connection.” “Do you think I enjoy this?” I ask. His pale blue eyes brighten with anger. “I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe you’re just fucking scared.” “Shouldn’t I be? Shouldn’t you be? Do you wish to repeat what we did to Elisabeth?” He looks as if I’ve struck him. In a way, I have. Neither of us has said her name since we lost her, and that was over a century ago. I don’t know what has compelled me to say it now, other than the aching of my heart. Every woman since Elisabeth has been a temporary stand-in for what we lost, and it feels a betrayal to her memory and to the promises Will and I made to each other in the aftermath. “Never again,” I remind him. “We said never again.” “Learning the name of a playmate isn’t the same as offering her a permanent place in our lives as our amant,” he says. “Yes, well, that’s how it starts.” I turn around and stride to my room, the new blood in my system energizing me and giving me life…yet doing nothing to ease the heaviness in my chest. “You’re a bloody arsehole,” Will mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. I flip him off over my shoulder, not knowing or caring whether he sees the gesture.

Turning up one side street, then another, I try to get myself back to the seedier part of town where I might have better motel luck. There’s a large building up ahead, possibly motel-sized. My stomach clenches with hunger pangs, but I force myself to keep walking. Soon, I’m standing in front of a well-landscaped grassy lawn peppered with flowering bushes and groupings of fat, happy daisies. An antique-looking engraved metal sign nestled in with some daisies reads The Corbin Library. Libraries are great. They’re welcoming, peaceful. They feel safe to me, over anything else. I straighten up, hoisting the straps of my messenger bag and purse over my shoulder, and walk up to the glass-paned double door. It feels disrespectful to be walking into such a hallowed place wearing a stranger’s skirt, flip-flops, and a hoodie, but it can’t be helped. Besides, books don’t judge people; people judge people. There’s a woman at the front desk. She has curly black hair, deep blue eyes, and her pantsuit is a thing of envy, especially with the jaunty polka-dot bowtie she wears with it. “Hello,” she says. “Are you a member?” “Um…no?” Her smile is pleasant even as she says in a practiced voice, “I’m sorry, but The Corbin is a private library.” I mouth the words private library. “That’s a thing?” She chuckles. “It is. Membership is curated.” “Oh. Crap. I just wanted to look around for a little while.” “You can purchase a one-time pass without becoming a member,” she says. “It’s not cheap, but y...

The receptionist gives me an indulgent smile as I hurry to the welcoming doorway behind the reception desk. The room past this one leads to a wide set of stairs. I have no plan, just a drive to explore. “The library closes at six,” she says after me. “Okay, thanks,” I say over my shoulder, giving her a thumb’s up. Six o’clock is hours and hours from now. I have a library to explore. A wooden sign hanging from the high ceiling in this large, rectangular room reads Supernatural Phenomena. Holy shit, I found the mother lode in one fell swoop. Several tables, propped by large, heavy-looking cabinets, display everything from statues, to glass vials containing special “potions,” to relics proclaiming to be tufts of fur from Bigfoot, to stones with acid marks reportedly from a lamia’s venom. “This is unbelievable,” I murmur, transfixed by a larger-than-life painting of a female vampire locking her jaws on the neck of a man who appears to be in the throes of ecstasy. I want to take every book from the shelf and read it cover to cover. But there’s more library here. The building looked to be three stories from the outside, and the stairs are before me, beckoning. There’s no map. I don’t know what any particular room will hold until I come upon it. I wander through the second floor where I find Music Biographies, Historical Linguistics, Midwifery, European History, Contemporary Indian Film, and 1800s San Esteban. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the subjects chosen, b...

the room where I finally park myself: BDSM. I’m not an experienced woman in matters of the bedroom. I’m also not a virgin, after a few forgettable nights with a bland college boyfriend Dale set me up with. And as someone who has spent more than thirty minutes on the internet, I know about kink. I’ve always been curious, but I’ve never allowed myself to fully indulge in that curiosity. And this room. This room. It has everything. A set of two large wooden display cases contain a variety of floggers, whips, and paddles in addition to all kinds of restraints. I glance around. The room is empty, which is a relief, because I feel like I’m having a very private moment with the photograph opposite me. It depicts a woman with two men. The image itself is tastefully done, with attention to shadow and light, and an angle on the subjects which makes it feel more like art and less like porn. Still, it’s arousing. The men are sucking on the woman’s neck, their hands all over her body—breasts, pussy, mouth. Her eyes are closed and her forehead is wrinkled in what looks like pleasure or pain but is probably a combination of both. I want to be her. I want to be her so badly, I ache between my legs, and my heart pulses with longing. Then I laugh to myself. I could barely keep that one dude in college satisfied; what makes me think I’d ever be woman enough for two guys? Reluctantly, I turn away from the photograph and march to the shelves. If I’m paying a hundred dollars to be here, then I ...

A flowery, girlie scent fills my nose when I step through the front doors of the library. My first thought is that Izzie is trying out a new perfume, but when I get closer to her to say hello and ask about the day, I realize the heavenly scent isn’t coming from her. “Mr. Johannson,” Izzie says with a professional smile. Her giant silver and turquoise hoops catch the light as she tilts her head. “It’s so nice to see you.” “You too, Izzie,” I say. “And call me Xander, please.” “Of course.” I’ve told her this several times, but she seems to prefer the formality and deference. It could be my dominant nature bringing it out of her, or she could just be a stickler for showing one’s boss respect with a Mr. or a Ms. Or maybe it’s merely a joke to her, to call me Mr. Johannson and then have me correct her. Perhaps she views it as part of our script when I check in. “It seems quiet here today,” I say. Do you know where that intoxicating scent is coming from? “It has been. Two walk-ins, and the rest members, but no more patrons than usual.” She shows me the tally for the daily guests. “Excellent. All looks well, here. I’m just going to poke around upstairs.” And hunt down whoever smells like jasmine. “Can I find a book for you?” “No, thanks. I think I know my way around.” She laughs and I give her a nod before looking around the entryway, following my nose. That scent. It’s intoxicating. It lingers in every room, taunting me. I’m a vampire. My primal kink is ingrained in both the sub...

Up to the second floor, where I get more and more frustrated with every room. My cock presses painfully against my zipper. If the library were closed right now, if it were just Will and I hunting her, he and I would be naked, our hard cocks jutting out as we moved. Once we found our mouse, we’d ravage her clothes with our teeth before plunging into her with our cocks and our fangs, claiming our prey. We would feed on her blood, feed on her fear, feed on her lust. She would pay, in pain and pleasure, for keeping me waiting, for making me work for it. I don’t find her on the second floor. My instincts are heightened as I take the stairs one by one, moving up to the third floor. One room after another, working my way from the east side over to the west side of the building, systematically looking in every room, stalking through the stacks, winding through display cases. Finally, my path brings me to my favorite room, the BDSM room. I cannot imagine my luck. My little mouse chose to hide here, of all places? At the entrance to the room, I close my eyes and inhale. Her scent is strongest here. This is where she’s hiding from me. I lean against the side of the doorway and examine the room. Falsely at ease. A woman sits alone at one of the tables with a book open in front of her. Her long, light brown hair falls down her back in a straight sheet. Her wide mouth is so expressive as she reads…and the way she keeps pulling her lips between her teeth tells me she’s aroused. When she’...

I could fill that need. I could fill it until she’s coming all over my cock. She’d scream for me.

Our little mouse would beg, plead for mercy, for a break, but the orgasms would keep on coming. Night, after night, after night.

images snap out of existence, replaced with darkness. This would never work. I want her too much. The last time I felt anything close to this, although it was different in its own way, was with Elisabeth. This woman in front of me, the one who smells so good, I can tell she would make a perfect amant, the perfect forever-third, completing Will’s and my bonds. I stare at her for a good, long moment. I want to laugh at the cruelty of fate. She’s so fucking beautiful, it hurts my chest to look at her. This is a woman I would love to protect, a woman I would love to cherish. Not for one night, but forever. Which is exactly why I turn around and walk away. Will’s and my version of forever only holds danger for a sweet little mouse like that. Every step I take away from the BDSM room feels like a stake in my heart, but I do it. I do it for her, and I do it for Will, and I do it for me.

The librarian is on the phone while she gathers her purse and jacket from the back of her chair. Great, she’s distracted, getting ready to leave. She drops something and bends down below the top of the desk to retrieve it. Perfect. I race back through the doors, silent as possible. The marble floor is cold beneath my bare feet. I duck behind the cleaning cart, but right as I lower myself out of sight, I see the librarian see me. Fuck. Fuck. I thought I was being so sneaky. The librarian’s mouth opens in surprise, but she quickly closes it. I don’t see any more of her reaction because I duck my head once more and lean against the giant trash bin. This is utterly mortifying. Not only do I not have anywhere to sleep, but I just tried to break into a private library. Head pressed against smelly plastic, I close my eyes, completely dismayed, and wait for the librarian to sound an alert. But nothing happens. She doesn’t say a word. In fact, I hear her high-heeled footsteps approach the front doors. I crawl around the side of the cleaning cart, keeping myself out of her view, but I peer around the side of it. She opens the front door, steps outside. She locks the doors. She left. She’s locked me in. I stare as she checks that the doors are really locked, and her gaze flicks toward me once more and clashes with mine. I suck in a breath. This is it. She really saw me, no denying it, and it’s over. But the corners of her mouth tick up in the tiniest of smiles. She gives me a single ...