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The Trains Stop for You and So Do the Boys When You Run Your Fingers through Your Hair (And I Am Gonna Drink Your Blood)

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Morgana floated awake to the scent of blood—musky and metallic. In the air, it mingled with the familiar taste of Gwen: the saltiness of her sweat, the lingering traces of her lavender shampoo, the warm bitter flavour of her sex. She sat up, searching for the source as her body tensed, her vision sharpened, her canines slotted down eagerly. She examined her surroundings: yellow flower-print curtains, an antique wooden bed frame, a heap of clothes on the rug. She was alone in their hotel room in St. Ives. Through the closed blinds, she heard the distant rumble of the ocean.

“Shit.” Gwen’s voice sounded through the door of their en suite. “Bloody fucking hell.”

Morgana’s mouth was watering. The smell of blood drifted faintly towards her; God, it had been so long since she’d had it straight from the vein. She ran her hand through her tangled hair and tried to keep her voice steady.

“Gwen, you alright in there?”

The door swung open and scent washed over Morgana in powerful waves. Holy fuck, the smell of blood was rolling off Gwen.

Gwen stared at her, frowning. Her hair was damp; she was wrapped in a white towel that exposed her dusky thighs and slope of her shoulders. Morgana wanted to run her tongue over every inch of Gwen’s body, and then find the source of the blood and suck and lick and take. She fisted her hand in the sheet and looked away, swallowing against her dry throat. On a normal day, when the scent of Gwen’s blood wasn’t flooding Morgana’s nostrils, her desire for Gwen was a white hot pulse inside her. Today, it was a starburst of need, throbbing, flooding her with heat, sparking uncomfortably across her ribs and in her nipples.

Gwen sighed. “Morgana, I am so sorry.”

Morgana shook her head, trying to clear it and make sense of what Gwen was saying.

“I’m a week early. My fucking period.”

Oh God. The thought of blood—warm, sticky, and nourishing—right there where Gwen unlocked sent a shudder of want through Morgana.

Gwen flounced over to the bed, her mouth-watering smell intensifying, and huffed. “I wanted our first weekend trip together to be special. Just you and me staying inside and fucking all day, then crawling out at night for food so we’d have energy to go home and fuck some more. This sucks.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and pouted.

Morgana didn’t trust herself to speak.

She turned towards Gwen, carefully keeping her mouth closed to hide her canines, and pushed her back into the bed with a growl. Gwen’s towel fell open, baring her curves, the softness of her belly, her thatch of curls. Morgana nosed over her throat, drinking up the heady smell of her, mouthing at her pulse. Gently, she teased two fingers over Gwen’s folds, toying with her wetness. She latched onto her nipple and rolled it between her teeth, careful not to break the skin. Gwen keened and arched into her.

Perhaps this would have been a good time for the talk. The point where Morgana hoped Gwen didn’t laugh as she said simply, Actually I don’t have an allergy to sunshine. I’m really a vampire. But as she sprawled atop her, tracing her tongue over the sigh on Gwen’s lips, sinking her fingers deep inside her tight heat, Morgana knew she couldn’t stop now if a hundred mortals tried to drag her away.

“Morgana, what are you doing . . .” Gwen asked dazedly as Morgana shifted to perch between Gwen’s thighs, high on the scent of blood.

“Shh . . .” she searched for an explanation that Gwen would accept for now, “there’s no reason for your period to stop us. Let me show you.”

And then Gwen was gasping as Morgana sunk down and laid herself flat between Gwen’s legs, licking her thighs, drinking in the scent of her sweat, blood, and sex like a fine wine. She hovered for a moment, parting her with her fingers, staring at the fresh blood that glistened there, dark and full of life. Her tongue darted out, gently drawing Gwen’s flavour into her mouth, rolling the taste around. It was everything she’d ever thought Gwen would taste like—sweet and harsh at once, bitter and earthy, the hardness of iron with the softness of butter. The blood seeped into her system; Morgana was panting for more, but she held back, not quite trusting herself as she listened to Gwen’s quick inhales, watched the undulations of her hips. She leaned in again to lick from her dripping cunt to her clit. Gwen moaned and Morgana teased the tight flesh there for long moments.

Morgana feasted on drops, a trickle; it wasn’t nearly enough. She lowered herself back to Gwen’s cunt, easing her tongue as far inside her as she could, pushing her face into her clit, smothering herself in Gwen’s wet flesh. Above her, Gwen bit out a scream and dug her fingers hard into Morgana’s scalp, tugging at her hair. Thrusting her tongue over and over, Morgana ate into her, shivering as each new drop of blood and come landed on her tastebuds. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, licking up into her; pain spiked across her jaw, her tongue began to flag, and if she’d been mortal she would have suffocated long ago, but she continued to drink deep from Gwen’s tight channel as Gwen writhed and moaned above her. Even when Gwen climaxed, and clenched her thighs against Morgana’s head, she couldn’t pull away. She continued to lap and push at her, riding her through two, three more orgasms.

Finally, Gwen cursed and pried Morgana’s head away, staring dazedly at her. Morgana swallowed around the last delicious drop of Gwen and closed her lips into a tight line.

“My God, woman, you know how to prove a point,” Gwen laughed and then collapsed back against the bed in a smiling, unconscious sprawl.