The Victim With Rhythm

Sequel to "The Victim Wasting Away." This time Preston chooses.

This one caught his eye because she could dance.

            Of course, her looks helped.  Her body was lithe, toned like a belly-dancer—the real ones, not the pseudo-dancers of the modern day and age.  Rich chocolate color saturated her skin, gleaming with the sweat of a hard night’s work.  Her legs were smooth beneath her clingy red skirt, flashing thigh as she turned to give him a full view of her firm breasts.  She was clearly enjoying herself.  A smile played on her full lips as she rocked to the beat as though it had been chosen especially for her.  Preston had every right to stare.

            One glance at his partner told him she was already preoccupied.  Charlotte’s small form had found a guy to wrap around, her mouth nearly touching his ear as she seduced him.  It was dangerous, he thought angrily, for the tips of her fangs to show like they did.  But no one else seemed to notice.  If her boy-toy did, he didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

            And perhaps he shouldn’t.  Preston could also appreciate her slim waist, curving hips, and ample breasts that were now pressed against the guy’s shoulder.

            Preston tore his eyes away before she caught on.  Knowing her, Charlotte would have turned it into a game and tried to tease him.  She was still high off the blood of their latest—and longest-surviving—victim, so anything would be fair game.

            He didn’t have time for that nonsense.  He was starving.

            This time when he looked, the dancer’s eyes met his.  She didn’t falter in her step even as she arched an eyebrow in disdain before turning her back to him.  Near her, another young woman looked up as though in response to something said.  Then she looked over at Preston and laughed.  He barely heard it over the throbbing music.

            It pissed him off.  At the same time, Preston bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

            He was always up for a challenge.

            Preston couldn’t dance.  He wasn’t foolish enough to try.  But he could still make her think he was the hottest thing in the club with seemingly no effort.  It would take energy and at least fifteen minutes, but the payoff would be worth it.  She deserved whatever she got for snubbing him.

            Folding his arms over his chest, Preston leaned against the bar and went to work.  He sent his thoughts out, picturing a black fluid hand stretching through the throng of people and into the dancer’s head.  As he discovered her conscious thoughts—God, it’s hot in here; good thing I shaved this morning; is Carrie seriously making out with that skank?—he prodded deeper, seeking her innermost secrets.

            What makes you tick, Cleopatra, he thought with a wicked smile.  That was who she reminded him of—the seductive, powerful queen of old.  Only this time she came with shaved underarms.

            At last, he found what he was looking for.  She hated pasty white flesh; she thought guys who dressed so dark and bizarrely as Preston were creepy and suspicious.  She found his mouth disturbing, set in a sneer.  Which he found only slightly surprising; Charlotte always said he looked willful and proud, and she’d never had a better kisser.

            He also found things she liked in a man.  So he took those and began to give her subconscious whispers.

            But look at him.  She glanced over her shoulder, and he met her gaze, unsmiling.  Look at his muscles.  And he’s tall, almost taller than anyone else here.

            Cleopatra turned toward him again, still dancing, now giving him longer and longer glances.

            His eyes are intense.  He looks like someone who knows what he wants.

            Her luscious mouth parted as he continued to nudge her.  Soon she was openly staring at him, unaware of her friend’s confused and almost frightened expression.  Her chest rose and fell quickly, completely unrelated with her dancing.  Even from where he was, Preston smelled the unique heat beginning to emanate from her lower body.

            She wanted him now.

            After the way she’d treated him earlier, Preston wasn’t satisfied with that.  He wouldn’t give her the pleasure of approaching her and suggesting they take a cooling walk out back.  No, he intended to continue implanting thoughts.  He was now progressing to images, giving her fantasies of how he would treat her.  She had no idea how close to reality her supposed fantasies would be.

            He let her imagine him dragging her behind the club, shoving her against the wall as he practically tore her skirt up to her hips.  In her head, now, he was inside her, making her clutch him desperately as he treated her roughly.  Her head was thrown back in frantic screams, begging him to do more, to f**k her against the course brick so hard she’d bleed.

            Preston continued to put these fantasies into her head.  By now he was rather enjoying himself; her self-control was strong, but nearing the breaking point with every imaginary thrust.

            It took nearly four songs of her dancing, but he finally won.  She cut off in the middle of a beat, weaving her way through the crowd like a snake.  If she heard the bewildered cries of her friend, she paid her no mind.

            Wordlessly, she grasped Preston by the front of his black button-up shirt and dragged him toward the exit.  He kept his expression carefully blank, only nodding at the bouncer on their way out.

            Instead of out back, she took him to what he presumed to be her car; located, to his delight, near the back of the parking lot.  Shadows fell all around him, nearly swallowing her completely but for the intense red of her outfit.  Preston glanced down, taking it all in—the tiny skirt, slinky shirt, and high red pumps.  Even her lips looked like strawberries ready to burst.

            She wrapped her arms around his neck, intending to pull him down for a passionate kiss.  Preston only allowed it until he could maneuver the motion into his striking at her throat.

            The dancer cried out, struggling valiantly at first, but rapidly falling into a stupor.  She slumped against him, whimpering.  She was fighting every inch as he sucked the blood from her veins—and Preston was thoroughly pleased.

            This time when he spoke to her, it was with an overpowering silence that couldn’t have been her own.

            Next time pick your poison, Cleopatra.

Author's Note

Sequel to "The Victim Wasting Away," which will explain a little more about the mentioning of Charlotte.

Reviews

[Twilight]

Pretty good, and I enjoyed reading it! Therefore, I do not know why only one other person has reviewed it? Anyway, your descriptive details are better than in your previous writing. Also, the vampire is portrayed as a true "vamp", in every sense of the word! To a degree, it is slightly sexual, especially in your descriptions in the opening of this story!

At certain moments, the reader is slightly teased and thrilled by the sheer eroticism in this tale! Even so, it is far easier to appreciate, in the context of your other piece, "The Vicim Wasting Away" (as helpfully pointed out in your Author's Note). Thankyou, Deidre A. H, for yet another submission to one of my Contests!

[Erotic Goddess]

Hmmmmm, never know when it is the wrong man to snub! This was very well written and the story built perfectly. I enjoyed it.

xxoxx

[Ice Queen of the Vampir..]

Another great sequel and I just can't get enough of these two characters. I hope you write more about them soon. Awesome write!!!

Heather