Leah has mixed feelings about this. For the last few years her working life has revolved around stopping vampires doing what Skye has been doing. On the other hand her body, scars and all, is … delicious. Leah kisses the scars, traces her tattoos with her tongue, moves down gradually over breasts, ribs, stomach, thighs, circles Skye’s vulva with her lips. She’s hairless and smooth there, no hint even that she needs to shave. There’s a piercing through Skye’s clit hood, a ring – one large enough that it would fit Leah’s little finger, and with a tiny diamond set into it. She uses her lips to pull and twist gently at the ring and is rewarded with a hiss of pleasure, subtle relaxations and tensions in muscles that tell her Skye wants this.

Considering she’s been dead for about seventy years, Skye’s skin is still youthful and fresh. It smells very slightly of rich, well-used leather, almost as though it was the keynote in a perfume she’d been using.

Skye moves her legs apart, giving Leah better access to labia and clit. Leah uses lips and tongue, feeling as though she’s doing something taboo – not because of what she’s doing, but who she’s doing it to. The soft folds of skin are moist, certainly, but not warm in way human skin is warm. And Leah’s not getting the reaction she normally gets – because, in fact, she’s very good at doing this and usually has partners worming around, thrashing, breathing hard, moaning in pleasure. Insofar as they can thrash around when they’re tied to her bed, which of course Skye isn’t.

What she is doing is making a throaty, purring sound, while Leah belatedly remembers Skye doesn’t really need to make any sound at all because she doesn’t need to breathe. And then Skye gives a feral snarl, locks her good leg across Leah’s back – which also traps her arms – and grabs a handful of hair, using it to grind Leah’s mouth against her pussy.

‘Work at it harder, little one. I want my reward.’

Reward?

Leah dutifully rolls her tongue, uses it to part the labia and penetrate the vagina, working slowly and deliberately back oh-so-slowly towards the clit. And again. And again. She’s surprised at the richness of taste she finds there, as if it lies in layers waiting to be discovered one by one. She can’t put names to the complex flavours and aromas, but they bring associations and metaphors to mind. The smell of smoke and fire from earlier in the night; heavy red wine, perhaps a claret; a howling gale tearing through trees in a forest; a room in a large, old house, sumptuously furnished; a tangle of naked bodies on a thick rug in front of a fire and the scent of the fulfilment of lust permeating the air; an alleyway between old brick buildings in the city centre; an exposed throat pale in the shadows.

‘I said harder, bitch!’ The fist in Leah’s hair pulls tightly, forcing her mouth and nose so deeply between Skye’s legs that she can’t breathe. Pretty soon there are black spots dancing in front of her eyes, but Skye rewards her efforts with involuntary thigh-muscle spasms. They become stronger, faster, Skye’s whole body fizzing with energy, and then there’s an explosive and long-drawn-out shriek that must surely wake the neighbours and goes on much longer than any ordinary breath would be able to sustain.

Only then does Skye release a semi-conscious Leah from her clenched grip. Leah’s chest heaves with the effort of drawing in enough oxygen to sustain her. She takes a while to come round, feels Skye moving beside her on the bed, hears the rasp of the bedside cabinet drawers and the woman investigating what’s there. Skye makes noises of interest and appreciation.

‘You remember I said I was interrupted in my feeding?’ she asks. ‘If my ankle’s going to mend, I’ll need a … donation. And the toys I’m finding here suggest I don’t need to be particularly gentle …’

Cold metal around Leah’s wrists, the click of the ratchet pinioning them behind her back. Then Skye forces the ball-gag into her mouth, buckles it tighter than is comfortable on the back of her neck. Leah can grunt and moan. More than that is impossible. Skye slides her body carefully over Leah’s, moving her injured ankle gently. She lies on top of Leah, pushing her face-down into the mattress, and her voice, smooth as chocolate but with the same veiled hint of darkness, purrs in Leah’s ear.

‘When I said I was thinking about going off-programme, I knew I’d need a regular source. I’m so pleased it’s going to be you …’

Skye comes from the generation that had – has – fangs. Leah remembers her training: vampires don’t naturally have fangs, but during the war many had them implanted. Those who were in combat had wolf-like incisors and those who were secret agents, who had to pass as human, smaller and more discreet ones that were nonetheless useful weapons. Skye’s are the latter.

‘Nnnnnghh!’

The gag blocks Leah’s scream. Sharp as they might be, Skye’s fangs hurt like fuck as they penetrate at the base of her neck. There’s none of the silky, sensuous quality she’d imagined would go with feeding. The skin rips and parts in, from Leah’s perspective, painful slow motion. This is a carnivorous tearing at her flesh. She feels Skye’s fangs moving against muscle and vein, keeping the wound open; feels her tongue and lips licking every drop of oozing blood.