Her Vampire Addiction (Midnight Doms Book 9)

  Her Vampire Addiction

  I vowed never to love again…

  For over 1500 years, I've mostly walked alone. A vampire, a monster in the dark.

  Until she walks into my club: a ray of sunshine in the blackest night.

  She's blonde. Beautiful. Sassy. Submissive.

  And 100% human.

  I'm a predator, and she's my perfect prey. I'll have her tied up and quivering as I give her pain and pleasure like she's never felt before.

  But I'm not the only monster hunting her. And if I don't take her – claim her – I'll lose her forever...

  Her Vampire Addiction

  Tabitha Black

  Midnight Romance, LLC

  Contents

  Preface

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Want More Midnight Doms?

  Also by Tabitha Black

  About the author

  Preface

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  Dedication

  For my heart.

  I’ll never look at roses the same way again.

  Thank you for being my inspiration…

  1

  Sabina

  It’s been over an hour, and I’m starting to rethink this whole sodding evening. The air is stiflingly hot, and it’s not just my palms which are clammy as I tug once again at the dratted skirt which insistently rides up my thighs, even though I’m not doing anything but standing in line. The new heels I’m wearing are pinching my toes and making my calves ache, and while I do get off on pain in a variety of circumstances, enduring burning soles in the attempt to make my legs look longer is not high on my kink list. Some women wear high heels effortlessly. Unfortunately, I am not one of them.

  Pushing a damp strand of hair off my face, I blow out a breath and stare at the bouncer’s broad, suited back, willing him to turn and look at me, to finally let me into this club I’ve heard so much about but never been allowed to attend. Never until now, I correct myself. The bouncer doesn’t move.

  All around me, people are making easy, casual conversation, almost as if they expected a long wait, and are impervious to the muggy evening air. After all, Club Toxic is currently the most happening destination in downtown Tucson, despite persistent rumors that some people have come here and never been seen again.

  People do love to gossip.

  While there’s a whole bunch of us waiting in line like the kids who were always picked last for the team, every now and then, self-important individuals or small groups of people sweep right on by—most of them not even deigning to glance our way—and march confidently up to the two burly doormen who immediately step aside—if not deferentially, then at least respectfully. This has happened a few times since I’ve been standing here, and although I’ve checked repeatedly, I haven’t yet been able to spot any kind of wristband or hand stamp or anything else to distinguish these obviously VIP guests from the rest of us.

  What do they have that we haven’t?

  Glancing behind me, I see that dozens more people have since joined the queue, all dressed in their clubbing finery, all apparently content to stand forever in the oppressive Arizona heat just for a chance to... do what, exactly? Have a drink? Hang out with their friends? This is Tucson, there’s no shortage of venues for a good night out. So why this one? What’s so special about Club Toxic? Is it just the reputation? The rumors? Are they thrill-seekers, or merely desperate to be trendy?

  I have an ulterior motive for being here, but even so, I’ve now made up my mind that if I don’t get in within the next ten minutes, I’m going home. Whenever Zeke talked about this place, his lip curling into a sneer as he warned me to stay the fuck away, he never mentioned having to stand in line for hours first. That would have been more of a deterrent than anything else he could have told me.

  Ironically, it was his casual hint that there might be a kink scene here which piqued my interest. We had been dating for a week or so, and discussing whether to go out—and where to—when I had suggested Club Toxic.

  “Absolutely not,” he’d said, his thick blond brows drawing together in a frown. “And you don’t go there, ever.”

  “Why?” I’d asked him, genuinely baffled. It was the first time I’d seen him so aggressive.

  “It’s not just a nightclub. It’s dangerous. I’ve heard things. Shit goes on in the basement… people getting up to all kinds of perverted stuff. There was recently a shooting outside. I don’t want to discuss it. Just promise me you’ll never go.”

  “I promise,” I’d said, desperate to ask more questions but recognizing that it probably wasn’t a good idea in his current mood.

  Zeke. That asshole. As it turned out, that first display of thinly veiled belligerence was just the tip of the iceberg. I dumped him yesterday, after barely four weeks of dating. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

  I don’t need anyone.

  Still, it was with a tiny, perverse sense of satisfaction that I got dressed up tonight and came out here—partly because I could really use a good play session, and partly because I know how furious Zeke would be if he knew. Not that I intend for him to find out.

  It’s been way too long since I was able to lose myself in that heady, intoxicating bliss of subspace. I don’t know for sure whether there really is any kind of BDSM club in the basement, but I’d very much like to find out.

  “You there! The blonde!”

  It takes me a second to realize that someone’s calling out to me and I turn to find the source of the gruff male voice. A tall man is standing on the other side of the velvet rope, a mere foot or so away, his piercing gaze directed at me. I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes, you. Want to come in with me?”

  Even though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an inherent hint of command in his inflection and I find myself obeying instinctively, ducking under the rope and moving towards him.

  Some people just have that dominant tone which flicks my sub switch. Besides, this is my ticket inside. I’d be a complete fool to turn it down.

  I’m no fool.

  As soon as I reach the man’s side, he grips my upper arm and steers me toward the doors, not even giving me a chance to examine him properly. No matter. If we don’t get on, I can make my excuses and go explore by myself. I just have to get through the fucking door first.

  “Allan. Liam.” My new companion addresses the bouncers curtly as they step aside to let us through. A blast of arctic air-conditioning ruffles my hair as we head into the club proper.

  The place is jammed with writhing, grinding bodies and the thumping, bass-heavy music makes it seem like a living thing, an entity with a powerful heartbeat controlling everyone inside.

  “Drink?” my companion asks once we’ve passed the coat check booth.

  “Name?” I counter, glad when he comes to a halt and looks down at me because now I finally have a chance to assess him. His dark hair flops over his s
mooth, pale forehead. He has a large, almost beaky nose and thin, unsmiling lips.

  “Ethan,” he says, his hand still possessively on my upper arm. And you are?”

  “Sabina.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He has a strange accent. I want to say British but not quite. Almost as if he’s lived in a few different places. If I had to guess his age, I’d say mid to late thirties. Physically he’s not really my type, but now that I’m actually inside the club, I’m not keen on the idea of wandering around alone just yet. “It’s nice to meet you too. And I’d love a drink. Thank you.”

  Ethan steers me off to the right, to a huge, mahogany bar. All the stools are occupied and I curse inwardly. I had been hoping for a chance to give my sore, aching feet a break.

  “Red wine?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Good choice.” He turns back to the bar and I’m amazed at how fast he’s served, considering the crowd.

  While he organizes the drinks, I assess my surroundings. It’s cooler than it was outside, but not by much, which is something I attribute to the sheer number of people crammed into the place. There’s a lounge area to my right, beyond the L-shaped mahogany bar. The dance floor is directly in front of me. Couples are dancing, grinding up against one another to the point of dry-humping in places, but try as I might, I can’t see any trace of anything even remotely kinky.

  Shame.

  “Here.” Ethan’s voice drags me back to the present and I accept the proffered glass gratefully.

  “Thank you.” I take a sip, savoring the sweet, full flavor. “This is nice.”

  His long, slender fingers are curled around the stem of his own glass as he brings it to his lips. “Lots of body,” he says, then directs a penetrating, sweeping stare from the top of my head all the way down to my shiny mauve shoes. “Delicious.”

  Something about the way he says that makes me uneasy and I take another long swallow of wine to distract myself. Everything’s fine. I’m in control. I can take care of myself. I’ll finish my drink, thank him again, and be on my merry way.

  Then his piercing grey eyes meet mine and he growls, so low I can barely hear it, “You like pain. I can give it to you.”

  Despite my surprise, I can’t prevent the sudden tingle between my thighs or the way my breath catches in my chest. And for some reason, I find myself completely unable to lie.

  “I do.” It’s more a croak than a whisper.

  “You thought this was a BDSM club.”

  Is he reading my mind? “I had heard rumors. But it would seem I was mistaken.” I want to look away from him but it’s strangely impossible. Almost as if he’s hypnotized me.

  “What if I told you there was a place beneath our very feet where I could take you into a dark corner and hurt you in all the ways you crave… and some you don’t even know you want—yet?”

  “I’d say you’re lying,” I whisper, my heart pounding, my fingers rigid around the bulb of my wine glass.

  His cruel mouth turns up in a mocking sneer. “Then drink up, and I’ll prove I’m telling the truth.”

  A little voice in my head is screaming at me that this is not a good idea, that there’s something inherently untrustworthy about him. But I’m also curious. And I can’t deny the effect his words are having on me.

  My eyes are burning but I’m unable to blink as I raise my glass to my lips once more and drink deeply, draining the wine in a few measured swallows.

  “Sabina.” The way he says my name… it feels almost like a caress. My mind is foggy as he sets our glasses down on the bar behind him and lays a bill beside them before turning back to me. His suit looks expensive. The effects of downing almost an entire glass of wine in one go kick in, a rush of giddy warmth spreading throughout my body and making me unsteady on my feet.

  Ethan grips my upper arm once more and guides me back toward the coat check area. To my astonishment, we actually go into the booth and then through a hidden door. It really is a secret entrance, I find myself thinking.

  As we descend what seems to be an interminably long staircase, he’s crooning in my ear, “I’m going to make you feel so good. Things you didn’t even know you were capable of. Just trust me.”

  Trust him? After ten minutes and one drink? He’s obviously delusional, but I still murmur something agreeable because for one thing, my heart is pounding with excitement and for another, I’m now very curious to see where these steps lead.

  We’ve finished our descent and I stop dead in my tracks, overwhelmed by the sight that greets me. “There really is a kink club down here,” I breathe, almost to myself.

  The place is bathed in a red glow and there’s music here, too, but it’s more sensual than upstairs. Directly opposite us is a bar, to our right is a huge dancefloor. A raised dais with what looks like two huge thrones on it has just caught my eye when, from behind me, Ethan cups my breast, digging his fingers in cruelly. I gasp and my head falls back against his shoulder.

  “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, hon,” he rasps, and begins steering me expertly through the people on the dancefloor. I glimpse flashes of erotic activity—a naked brunette on her knees is sucking someone’s cock; a slender young woman is bent over, wrapped around a sturdy man’s hip, holding on to his ankles as he spanks her soundly—and then we’re in some kind of booth.

  “Disrobe.” Ethan’s voice is icy.

  This is suddenly happening way too fast. I glare at him and once again, my limbs feel warm and heavy, my mind foggy. “Wait,” I whisper.

  “I’ll count to three.”

  This is all wrong. I haven’t actually agreed to scene with him. We haven’t discussed limits, a safeword, preferences, nothing. I glance beyond his shoulder towards the rest of the club. There’s a thick curtain but no door. Thank god.

  “Eyes on me,” he says. “One.”

  “Look, Ethan,” I begin, deliberately using his name rather than Sir or any other term of respect. “This is happening too fast for me. Can we please go and have another drink, discuss things—”

  “Two.” He takes a step towards me. My palms are suddenly clammy again and I wipe them on my dress. “Trust me, you do not want to make me say three.”

  “Why?” I raise my chin defiantly. “Will you hurt me?”

  His eyes are so strange. They looked grey earlier but now it’s almost like there are violet rings in the irises. His slender face is taut with anger. “Three.”

  As Ethan lunges towards me, I sidestep him and make a break for the curtain, shoving the thick, velvety material aside, knowing now exactly how a fly must feel in a spider’s web as I get tangled in it and struggle to free myself. “Help!” I scream, knowing nobody could possibly hear me above all the sounds of the club—the music, the conversation, the cries of pleasure and pain. “Help!”

  There’s a sharp, prickling pain at the base of my skull and I realize Ethan has wrapped my hair around his fist and is tugging me back into the booth. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he says coolly. I’m horrified by how casual he still is—and by his strength. I’m not one of those tiny, slender little women who look like a stiff breeze could carry them away. I’m tall. I have hips, and thighs. And I can fight. Been doing it all my life.

  I’m still wondering how Ethan is overpowering me with such apparent ease when a loud tearing sound rents the air and I realize he’s ripped my dress clean off my body, exposing me to his piercing gaze. His expression, as he wraps one hand around my throat and pinches my nipple cruelly with the other, is contemptuous. Mocking. “Oh dear,” he says coolly. “I told you not to let me get to three.”

  2

  Maximus

  Saturday nights are always the busiest, but this one’s even worse than usual. The line outside of people waiting to get in is longer than ever, and I’m grateful I’m on dungeon monitor duty tonight. It’s too damn hot out there so there are too many bugs. Why Lucius had to pick Arizona of all places to settle is beyond me, bu
t we’re here now so we have no choice but to make the best of it.

  Besides, there’s always something. He turned me 1600 years ago. In that time, I’ve seen it all and done it all, and nothing is ever one hundred percent perfect.

  A ragged gasp catches my attention and I look to the source of the sound. Some people might have trouble differentiating between the regular noises people make when they’re engaging in BDSM, and the sounds they make when they’re in some kind of trouble. I’m not some people. I do have a huge amount of experience, after all—not to mention very keen senses. I can literally hear a pin drop.

  The gasp came from a pretty young thing with her top rucked down to expose her breasts. Clover clamps are affixed to both her nipples, crushing them in their vice-like grip, and Eddie is tugging at the chain to make them tighter, a grin of sadistic pleasure lighting up his face. The girl gasps again, a definite sound of pain, but her expression is calm, her hips writhing softly as if she were humping the air.

  False alarm then.

  I settle back onto my stool. It’s tucked discreetly away in a corner between the private booths and the play stations, within hearing distance of pretty much everything right up to the bar. All the better for me to watch out for everyone.

  A slender redhead struts by and for the briefest of seconds, I feel a pang in my chest where my heart used to beat. Caroline’s hair was the exact same shade. Then I clench my fists and will the thought away. It’s been over a century. I should be over it by now. I am over it.