The Vampires Breakfast by Raven McAllan


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The vampire’s breakfast was well overdue. There was just one thing to discover: Who

was the vampire and who was the victim?

When Dorissa and Rafe got together, sparks flew and sex was always on the menu. This

time, though, it went deeper. And became a game of dominance and a race to win.

Dorissa knew her life depended on Rafe—he didn’t. Could she show him how?

Rafe wanted Dorissa in every manner possible. However, he could only guess at her

needs and wants, and had no idea if they meshed with his…

In this game of life, could there be two winners, or would they both lose?

As dawn approached, one of them knew that once the sun rose, nothing would be the

same again.

“So, my love. Are we in the mood?”

“Well, of course.” She undid the cloak she’d only recently donned. “How

much time do we have?” Dorissa knew it wasn’t long, but Rafe in this state of mind

wouldn’t need many minutes.

“You have one quarter of the hour to make me shudder and spill.”

That was longer than he often allocated her. Dorissa knelt on the floor

between his outstretched legs, and he pulled her hair to draw her closer. She bent her

head to nuzzle his cock through the fine linen of his trousers. Already it was outlined,

hard and thick, under the material. She nigh on drooled at the thought of taking it with

all its male scents into her mouth.

“May I, my lord?” She looked up at him, and the action made his hold on her

hair tighten. It was, she decided, a tug just short of pain. A sweet pain and part of their

play that Dorissa relished. Rafe was a master at bringing her to the brink and refusing

to let her tumble over into the abyss. She loved it. Every sweet sting, sharp pain, and

eventual climax was all she wanted. Tonight it seemed she was to suffer the agonies

of not achieving release while her lover did.

For now.

“Of course.”

That was the agreement Dorissa needed. In the darkness she saw only the

outline of his body, and she worked by touch to open the placket of his breeches and

release his cock.

“No hands.”

So it was to be mouth on cock then? Dorissa shuffled nearer his seat and

ignored the sting-turned-to-pain in her scalp. Not for the first time, she mentally

thanked Rafe for insisting Aubusson carpet be put down in his coach. If the coachmen

knew what happened between the silk-covered walls of the carriage and on that

expensive, carpeted floor, they were sensible enough not to mention it.

He kept one hand tight in her hair while she bent her head and maneuvered

her mouth around the thick, mushroom-shaped head of his staff. Dorissa swirled her

tongue over the slit and dipped the tip into it as far as she could. Rafe tasted of hot,

musky masculinity, and his pre-seed juice was thick and covered every inch of cock

she feasted on.

“More.” He was all dominant male, and she grinned to herself before she drew

him even farther down her throat. It had taken a lot of patience and practice to accept

his cock so far into her mouth.

Rafe helped her fuck him like that. The coach swayed, and she used its

movement to set up a rhythm. For each thrust by her lover, Dorissa relaxed her throat

muscles only to tighten them to draw him back in. In truth she loved the trust he gave

her when she took him this way. The fact that he accepted all she wanted was to make

him come and swallow his seed was a powerful aphrodisiac, and Dorissa knew if he

gave the word, it would take little for her to join him.

However, she understood Rafe, and if, as it seemed, he was in an all-out

dominant mood, he would enjoy making her wait.

“Now, my sweet, make me roar.”

Well what can I say?

I’m growing old disgracefully and loving it.

Dh and I live on the edge of a Scottish forest and rattle around in a house

much too big for us.

Our kids have grown up and flown the nest, but roll back up when they want

to take a deep breath and smell the daisies so to speak.

I write in my study, which overlooks the garden and the lane. I’m often seen

procrastinating, by checking out the wildlife, looking—only looking—at the ironing

basket, and assuring tourists that indeed, I’m not the bed and breakfast. That would

mean cooking fried eggs without breaking the yolks and disturbing the dust bunnies

as they procreate under the beds. Not to be thought of.

Being able to do what I love, and knowing people get pleasure from my

writing, is fantastic. Long may it last.


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