Love is the Color of Blood

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 5,500
2 Ratings (3.0)

Dean was a vampire hunter who caught the eye of the master of the local kiss. He hates what he has become and the terrible realisation that he might need his nameless Master and what he offers, permanence.

Love is the Color of Blood
2 Ratings (3.0)

Love is the Color of Blood

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 5,500
2 Ratings (3.0)
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Cover Art by Selena Kitt
Reviews
Another enjoyable short story. Sweet romance. Nice escape.
keanharv2
Professional Reviews

Seriously Reviewed

"I was entrenched in Dean’s head…I loved the struggle for control and the power Dean has in submission."

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Excerpt

The top floor of the old hotel is given over to the local Coven master, who is currently running his hand slowly over the trembling spine of his pet as he shudders and weeps through the last of his orgasm. This is when his Master feels his power most keenly, when Dean's defences are shattered and he lies across the desk, shaking and crying and hating himself most of all.

He kisses him at the small of his back, an inch up from his butt crack, and whispers into the hot skin, "everything you are, belongs to me," and Dean knows that it's true.

In the sunrise through the tempered glass the sun rises over LA and his Master appreciates it- he appreciates the way the sun climbs over the buildings, through the gaps in the sky scrapers and the colour of fire tints the sweat on Dean's back. It's a wonderful sight and his Master lowers his cold tongue and draws a line along the nubs of Dean's spine as if he can taste the sun there with the sweat and the tang of sex and the perfumes on his skin. Dean vocalises but says nothing, he's beyond words at the moment. So his Master bites down playfully with his human mouth on the tattoo on Dean's shoulder. It is one of two marks of ownership, the same mark as on his own skin. "You belong to me," he says clearly stretching himself over him. Against his ear, where his lack of breath fails to stir the tiny hairs, "you are mine, Dean, mine," With his face against the leather blotter, his face mouth distended by the gag Dean fights it. His Master doesn't care, in fact he prefers it like that.

With a final dragging caress of his fingertips along those delightful ridges of Dean's spine, along a set of scars from a childhood injury, and down over the ass, then slaps the skin hard. Dean vocalises again, his body jerking despite the ties holding him to the desk drawers and the spreader bar between his knees. his Master smiles, Dean wouldn't be half as much fun if he didn't fight it.

By the time he leaves the shower, noting the red places in his own skin and how the last of the blood is leaving him cold as opposed to cool, that Dean is past shuddering and has started shivering. His Master smiles to himself, his shirt open along his chest as he picks up the remote and turns the fireplace on. "you did well today," he tells Dean, "I might undo you later." Then with another slap to the ass he goes to his office and the day ahead.

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