Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Breathless Press Spotlight - The Vampire's Breakfast by Raven McAllan


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."

                                                        Breathless Press Buy Link

Author Bio:

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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