Wednesday, 22 May 2013

And Their Blood Will Be Prescient To Fire: Part 3 by Freda Warrington

Disclaimer: This extract contains scenes of an adult nature.

Welcome to  the 'Gorgeous Grave Throbber' Blog Tour!

From award-winning British fantasy author Freda Warrington, A Taste of Blood Wine (Titan Books, May 2013) is the first novel of a gothic vampire melodrama.

To celebrate the return of the critically acclaimed Blood Books in collectable paperback and e-book edition, Titan Books and Freda Warrington are serialising two rare and risqué stories set within the universe of the Blood Books across a series of websites and blogs. 

We’re publishing the third part of a short story, And Their Blood Will Be Prescient to Fire. Read the rest of the tale here!

And Their Blood Will Be Prescient to Fire: Part 3
by Freda Warrington

The narcotic wine dissolved boundaries. It blurred the room into a cocoon of gold, softened edges, intensified feelings, elongated time. They were falling in through the door, kissing. Violette twirled away, peeling the t-shirt over her head; her small breasts were bare beneath. How wonderfully strong and arched her feet were, stepping out of jeans and a tiny violet thong. Ruth followed, mesmerised by the slender body, lily-white as if the sun had never touched it. The sable triangle, black as her hair. Now Violette was kneeling in the centre of the bed with Ruth perched on the edge, languorous but uncertain; the dancer leaning forward, turning her so their mouths met.

Ivory fingertips worked at Ruth’s buttons. Her skirt and jacket with their satin linings slid easily to the floor. Cool hands moved onto her naked flesh, sliding beneath her underwear, impatient to remove it. Dancer’s hands, smooth yet unbelievably strong. Their lips folded together, moist and hot. Violette’s tongue, parting her teeth, sent a snake of heat all through Ruth’s body, a hot stiff column of aching fire. Pulling each other down, they lay alongside each other; nipples touching, Violette’s thigh loosely bent and raised to cover Ruth’s darker limb. Ivory on amber.

When Violette rose above her, she was everywhere, a soft bell tolling. Her hair was a black waterfall. Eyes two violet moons, arousing werewolf madness. She filled the world. Her face almost touched Ruth’s, so close the eyelashes brushed her cheek. Her scent… hardly there at all. Lily of the valley, faint and pure. It was Ruth’s own musk that perfumed Violette’s body.

Her tongue tasted Ruth’s breasts, trailed all the way into the centre of fire, explored exquisitely until Ruth cried out. The goddess rose again. They devoured each other’s mouths.

In this fever no inhibition remained and Ruth caressed the dancer everywhere; felt strong sweet notes of pleasure where Violette’s thigh pressed hard between her own… felt the muscular contractions of the dancer’s climax against the hot wet palm of her hand…

Ruth’s head fell back, eyes closed. The piercing convulsion of orgasm lit another sensation, a burning pin-prick in her throat. Violette’s head was heavy in her shoulder, silken hair spilling over them both.

Strangest pain, like something pulling, pinioning her. She was drowning in hair. Spinning in the darkening honey light, Ruth looked down at her own body and saw that it was covered in bruises; each a black flower with a red centre.

I have never tried to meet her. 

This may seem unbelievable, but I never dared. ‘Giving my life to meet her’ is a dream; dull prosaic reality is that I’m afraid. If I met her, everything would change. Perhaps she’d be enchanted and take me under her wing as some kind of fledgling assistant; yeah, right. She might turn viciously on me, one adoring fan too many. But her indifference would kill me.

So I am listening as Ruth spills out this incredible story. 

She is pale but too animated; hardly able to talk at first, then stumbling on the words. ‘You’ll never guess who I met… oh my God…I know she’s your idol but…’ almost in pieces. I’m not even clear what she’s trying to tell me – until I take her hand. Then I see everything.

Images of black and bronze hair tangling, small rounded buttocks rising and falling. Violette must have made comparisons with her hands… the texture of the breasts softer perhaps, the hips narrower, scent and taste subtly different from that of the long-dead lover. Did she like the differences or hate them? How could the two women be the same? I know nothing about Robyn, but I know there is only one Ruth.

Who now veers from shock to amazed laughter to sudden gentle horrified apology. ‘God, Sarah, I know she’s your hero and I’m so sorry to destroy your illusions, but you had to know. She’s not what you think.’

But how the hell does Ruth know what I think? 

I grip her hand so hard that she jumps and says, ‘Ow, what was that for?’

‘You touched Violette,’ I explain.

The first book in Freda Warrington’s Blood Books series, A Taste of Blood Wine, is out now from Titan Books, £7.99. 

Read the rest of the short story, And Their Blood Will Be Prescient to Fire, here!

© Freda Warrington

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