Nights in Pink Satin

Genre: Paranormal, Vampire, m/m non-traditional Romance, Novella, (R-18)

SMB_Nights_ReneeSlip into pink…

Vincent is a vampire of world renown, even if most people believe his story is a fable, but with age comes boredom. Seeking out new silk to line his coffin for his annual ball, he comes across a bolt of pink fabric. Curiosity leads him to seek out who ordered the cloth and in so doing, Vincent makes a mistake that is about to change his existence.

Martin is a newly turned vampire and a lonely gay man. When he returns to find a famous vampire in his humble abode, he’s glad of the company even though he’s also afraid. Moreover, he’s excited for this vampire is extremely good looking.

When trapped by the sun together for an entire day leads to an explosion of unexpected intimacy, Vincent is left wondering what has come over him and has to decide if such choices carry the same type of angst or consequences for one who has lived for so many decades, even centuries. Martin is left wondering if he’ll get what he hoped for — one night of passion — or if Vincent’s interested enough to see where their relationship might lead.

Setting doubts aside, Vincent and Martin have the opportunity to turn their back on their very different but equally lonely existences. As soon as Martin get rid of his ridiculous pink-lined coffin, Vincent and Martin can then look forward to many nights between sheets of pink satin.

When a simple mistake leads to a day of explosive passion, what’s a vampire to do, but look forward to a future of gay nights between sheets of pink satin?

Purchase from Changeling Press.

Read an Excerpt…

In such a small space, there really wasn’t room to manoeuvre. Somehow, Martin ended up sitting on Vincent’s lap, leaning back into his arms. One desire fed another; even one as young a vampire as Martin would know that, and the idea that the man wanted him filled Vincent with an odd kind of pleasure. Such was vanity, though inwardly Vincent berated the egotistical nature of the vampire. He seldom succumbed to such things, but this night — and day — appeared to be full of surprises.

As eager as Martin was, Vincent couldn’t fail to notice the sudden tension in the younger vampire’s limbs. Part of Martin’s stiffness was sexual, but part of it was purely that of fear, despite Martin’s desire for him. Vincent ran a hand up the surprisingly long line of Martin’s neck to cup the man under the chin. “Be still,” he told him. “I’ve no intent to harm you.”

Once, he might have ripped open such a young vamp’s throat to satisfy his hunger, or even his anger, but no longer, and certainly not today. Times changed; things once acceptable became regrets. What one did as a matter of course in centuries past haunted you into the future. Anyway, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known that Martin had more than one reason to get him into the… closet. Vincent smiled at the double entendre. He’d known. Of course he’d known. He just hadn’t wanted to accept, because what did that say about him? Martin hadn’t wanted him to leave, and he hadn’t wanted to go.

“This would be better with bare skin.” Martin’s whisper sounded next to his ear and spoke to deeper places than it had a right to go. Vincent’s cock gave a feeble push in the confines of his clothes. The sensible thing to do here would be to deny it the blood it so needed and wanted. As clear as the argument was, Vincent failed to take heed.

“Have you heard the saying that one shouldn’t push one’s luck?” Vincent spoke against Martin’s throat and tried to put as much chastisement into his voice as he could, but he struggled to sound coherent. If Martin didn’t know that the semi-tumescence that nudged him in the butt wasn’t a small torch, but struggling yet undeniable interest, he soon would.

He needed to feed. That was the reason Vincent gave himself for his unusual response. He needed blood, not sex. His need just confused the two desires.

He was lying to himself. His cock strained to harden. Blood would cure that problem.

“Sorry,” Martin said, swallowing down the word, but he didn’t sound sorry, and the swallow caused movement in the throat under Vincent’s hand and mouth. What could a little bare skin hurt? Dismayed at the thought, Vincent allowed a more practical argument to win the day. He didn’t want blood on his suit and Martin was right; it would wrinkle if he spent the day in it, in such cramped conditions. The trousers were one thing but the jacket was a favourite of his. His vanity pricked him again.

“Fine.” He shifted, striving to get out of his clothes. Martin leaned back far enough so Vincent could ease off the jacket. While the jacket snagged his arms, Martin’s fingers started working on Vincent’s shirt buttons.

Vincent ceased moving. “What are you doing?” The words hitched in his throat. He suppressed a shudder. The ache in his cock increased, and it wasn’t as if he was hard yet, even if he wasn’t quite limp. His cock fought the limitations of his body; he grew faint.

“Helping.” Martin apparently tried to make the remark sound innocent enough, but he didn’t quite succeed. It occurred to Vincent that he’d put himself in rather a vulnerable position with his arms pinned back like this even though he possessed the strength to rip through the jacket should Martin try to attack him. Even so, for one of his age, he should know better. This was a stupid thing to do.

He almost laughed. That wasn’t the only stupid thing he was doing right now.

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Vincent remarked. Martin’s gaze lifted, a mere glance that slithered away before Vincent could drown him in his gaze. The hands remained busy unfastening buttons but the younger vamp shrugged.

“What do you want me to say? I like you. I want you to drink from me. If that’s all I can have or share with you, I’ll still be in your arms for a short time.”

Vincent watched him, studying what he could see of his face, delighting in the concentration of Martin’s gaze as his fingers worked the buttons. What Vincent was feeling, Martin was feeling ten times worse. “I could kill you too easily.” He made the threat sound seductive, drew the sensations coursing through his body and Martin’s into the words, turning those emotions into sound. For a vampire, he gave good voice. Martin shuddered, fingers juddering against the last buttons, losing their grip.

“I know.”

Vincent might have imagined it, but the voice possibly quivered just slightly on the end of that sentence. “You’re not afraid?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Afraid and… excited?” One might have called it a good guess, and the way Martin’s hands shook once more as Vincent spoke gave the older vampire almost all the information he needed. He was unsure of one piece of the puzzle, though, and to ask seemed almost too cruel. Did Martin like the thrill of danger to spice his desires, or was he just that lonely? Vincent suspected a little of both.

The jacket was off. Martin had pushed the shirt open and back, revealing Vincent’s shoulders. Those cool fingers followed the course of the cloth and brought Vincent a little to his senses. The blood Martin had consumed that night rapidly cooled now, and it would lose its taste. Although to drink from another vamp was pleasurable, it was more so the sooner after one had fed. Vincent helped with the rest of his shirt. He was about to make a grab for Martin when the young man started peeling off his top.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Martin paused, looked a little aghast and uncertain. “Can’t I…” He stopped.

Clearly, Martin hoped for bodily contact, and more than just a wandering hand. Vincent preferred women, but he’d drunk from men in his day, as he had said, when he needed to, and he’d never been overly concerned whether they were clothed at the time. He hesitated, trying to decide if he should refuse. Even now, though aware of their mutual attraction, he tried to deny it. The look in Martin’s eye changed his mind. Some might have called that look crestfallen. What Vincent couldn’t understand was why he cared. Was he finally getting old, if not in years, then just by the passage of time?

A sudden urge overwhelmed him. He could only call it an urge for contact. He wanted to shake it off, run from it, but what would be the good of doing that? He sensed the longing would pursue him. Vincent knew all about desire; he’d lived with nothing else for centuries.

He’d travelled continents, changing names, changing identities, the way he lived his life to suit the times, and always… always, desire remained his constant companion. He satisfied it momentarily, often in blood, sometimes in sex, on many occasions both, and even more occasionally by changing his way of existence. Always he moved on to another town, another country, and yet another need.

Finally, he’d ended up in London for the longest time, where the city beat with a pulse all its own. Its frantic heartbeat matched his need… or so he had believed. Now, he didn’t understand why his throat felt dry, why his heart stuttered. Usually it only beat during emotional extremes, or while he gulped down blood. Yes, then it beat, as new life entered, flowing into his mouth, down his throat, filling his veins.

He wanted this. He wanted Martin. He wanted to drink from him, and as soon as he tried to push the desire away, it grew, as he had known it would. That was always the way for a vampire, but some part of him needed to try even if he didn’t understand why.

You do know.

In that moment, Vincent was glad Martin was young, and that even if he’d been older, Vincent was one of the few vamps who could shield his thoughts from almost anyone. Vincent didn’t need to impart that snippet of information to the one now on his knees between Vincent’s legs, and leaning over with such a longing look on his face.

Desire denied to a vampire was a desire mounting, doubling, even tripling in the space of time that it took to say no or yes. A shiver ran through Martin, but Vincent recognised it not just as a sign of excitement or fear, but of emotional pain. He tugged the young vamp forward, ignoring the short, sharp cry of surprise that left Martin’s lips as he tumbled into Vincent’s arms.

© Sharon Maria Bidwell, all rights reserved.

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