Blood Moon

by Jillian Graves

A tall, pale white man with shoulder length wavy black hair and lean muscles stands in front of me. He’s the spitting image of every fictional vampire crush I had as a tween. He’s dressed in all black too, jeans, fitted T-shirt, and open leather jacket. What soft-core late-night paranormal TV-show dressed this guy?

His long, pointed tongue darts out from between his fangs as he laps at the small puncture wounds, his saliva healing them quickly. “Fuck, you’re delicious.” His new golden eyes shine as he falls just as deeply under the spell as I am. “Sweet, so sweet.” Goddessdammit, I just want his immortal dick inside me.

Because after almost a century of partying and living a responsibility-free life, I’m finally getting my shit together and I still fuck up. Because I can’t seem to stop fucking up with you. Because I only want to see your blood flowing free when it’s under my fangs and lapped up by my tongue.