Demetri, the vampire I hate to love lounges across one end of the large sofa, his back propped up on a mound of pillows. There’s a slave girl on the floor beside him, down on her knees, long dark hair swept to the side, vein at the ready. She’s naked, at least from the waist up. I can’t see the bottom half of her. Heavy round breasts with peaked dark nipples, like small chocolate morsels ready to be bitten.
I lick my lips.
Dem shifts bringing my attention back to him. I have to admit he, by far, steals the show. Demetri lives to look like a vampire – painfully thin, always wearing his shirt undone to show off his rib cage pressed against almost translucent skin. Millions of bracelets, black painted nails. His hair is long and full of body, he must have a new shampoo, usually its stringy. Blonde highlights over black roots, the dye job is so bad I know he paid a lot of money for it.
He gets to his feet, clapping and rushes over to me. “My dark queen,” he gives me warm air kisses, not actually touching me.
Dem knows not to touch me or Jack without explicit permission or Lucien will tie him into a pretzel. He plays a dangerous game to be in my company – he must think the risk is worth the reward.