Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [7]
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel my breath upon your skin? My lips along your neck. The hard brush of teeth. The sweet, sharp pain of fangs. Your heart beating frantically against my chest. Your blood flowing into my veins. Sharing yourself. Giving me life. Knowing that I truly could not live without you, all of you.”
Perhaps it was the intimacy of darkness; whatever, I felt as if his voice was speaking just for me, to me. I was his chosen, his special one. No, that wasn’t right. Every woman in the club felt the same. We were all his chosen. And perhaps there was more truth in that than in anything else.
“Our first gentleman tonight shares your fantasy. He wanted to know how the sweetest of kisses would feel. He has gone before you to tell you that it is wondrous.” He let silence fill the darkness, until my own heartbeat sounded loud. “Phillip is with us tonight.”
Monica whispered, “Phillip!” A collective gasp ran through the audience, then a soft chanting began. “Phillip, Phillip . . .” The sound rose around us in the dark like a prayer.
The lights began to come up like at the end of a movie. A figure stood in the center of the stage. A white t-shirt hugged his upper body; not a muscleman, but well built. Not too much of a good thing. A black leather jacket, tight jeans and boots completed the outfit. He could have walked off any street. His thick, brown hair was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
Music drifted into the twilit silence. The man swayed to the sounds, hips rotating ever so slightly. He began to slip out of the leather jacket, moving almost in slow motion. The soft music began to have a pulse. A pulse that his body moved with, swaying. The jacket slid to the stage. He stared out at the audience for a minute, letting us see what there was to see. Scars hugged the bend of each arm, until the skin had formed white mounds of scar tissue.
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but I was betting I wasn’t going to like it.
He swept back his long hair from his face with both hands. He swayed and strutted around the edge of the stage. He stood near our table, looking down at us. His neck looked like a junkie’s arm.
I had to look away. All those neat little bite marks, neat little scars. I glanced up and found Catherine staring at her lap. Monica was leaning forward in her chair, lips half-parted.
He grabbed the t-shirt with strong hands and pulled. It peeled away from his chest, ripping. Screams from the audience. A few of them called his name. He smiled. The smile was dazzling, brilliant, melt-in-your-mouth sexy.
There was scar tissue on his smooth, bare chest: white scars, pinkish scars, new scars, old scars. I just sat staring with my mouth open.
Catherine whispered, “Dear God!”
“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Monica asked.
I glanced at her. Her flared collar had slipped, exposing two neat puncture wounds, fairly old, almost scars. Sweet Jesus.
The music burst into a pulsing violence. He danced, swaying, gyrating, throwing the strength of his body into every move. There was a white mass of scars over his left collarbone, ragged and vicious. My stomach tightened. A vampire had torn through his collarbone, ripped at him like a dog with a piece of meat. I knew, because I had a similar scar. I had a lot of similar scars.
Dollar bills appeared in hands like mushrooms after a rain. Monica was waving her money like a flag. I didn’t want Phillip at our table. I had to lean into Monica to be heard over the noise. “Monica, please, don’t bring him over here.”
Even as she turned to look at me, I knew it was too late. Phillip of the many scars was standing on the stage, looking down at us. I stared up into his very human eyes.
I could see the pulse in Monica’s throat. She licked her lips; her eyes were enormous. She stuffed the money down the front of his pants.
Her hands traced his scars like nervous butterflies. She leaned her face close to his stomach and began kissing his scars, leaving red lipstick prints behind. He knelt as she kissed him, forcing