Sips of Blood Read Online Free

at Lora's
face, tracing her features with two of his fingers. "Quelle
belle femme!" His fingers roamed down her neck, then paused. A
smile shaped his lips, and he bent forward. Again he smelled the
odor of her flesh mixed with her blood, and it increased the closer
he came to her artery. Quickly he took her, the gush of her blood
causing his own breath to momentarily halt. His cock ached for
fulfillment; adroitly he satisfied that urge, easing himself
smoothly into her body.
    By the time he left, Lora and Heloise had
been drained dry. Dear Heloise, who had tried earnestly to satisfy
his curiosities and who happened to be the only woman in the room
able to identify and locate him.

Chapter 4
     
     
    Marie stood in front of her Federalist-era
stone house. It wasn't the kind of home she was used to, but she
did find it charming, and she appreciated the isolation it
afforded. The nearest house was two miles away and inhabited by a
disgruntled old man who left her alone as long as she did the same
for him. Once she had made the mistake of knocking on his door.
After several seconds, a flabby man of about seventy-five had
opened the door.
    What little white hair he had on his head
stood straight up like stalagmites. What he lacked on his head was
abundant on his eyebrows. Murky grayish-green eyes squinted at her.
His nose was bulbous and pocked, the lips thin and heavily lined.
But what shocked her was the fact that he had answered the door in
a yellowish-white T-shirt and blue boxers that retained a water
spot near his genitals.
    "Hi. I'm Marie Masson. I've moved into the
Rathbone house just--"
    "Two miles away." His voice was gravelly,
hoarse from disuse.
    "But you do seem to be my closest neighbor."
She smiled. She had dressed for visiting, with her white silk
blouse and navy linen suit.
    "So?"
    "Well, I thought we should meet. You know, in
case of an emergency."
    "In an emergency it's every man and woman for him or herself."
    Her shoes pinched a bit, but she had not
expected to be standing for long. After all, a neighbor would
certainly invite her in for perhaps a cup of tea or a taste of
sherry.
    "At least we should exchange names and
telephone numbers, since we are quite cut off from other
people."
    "Listen, you decided to move into that old
Rathbone house. Now suddenly you decide it's too lonely for you.
That's your problem, not mine."
    "I rather like the isolation," she
indignantly replied. "But if there were any kind of emergency, it
would be useful to have at least a casual acquaintanceship
with--"
    "Name's Keith Bridgewater. I'm not telling
you my telephone number, and I ain't listed." He slammed the door,
leaving Marie furiously pissed off.
    Since then she had driven by the old man's
house. Occasionally he sat on his front porch smoking a cob pipe
and reading thick hardbacks. The temptation to stop was strong, but
somehow his indelicate attire, which seemed to be the usual for
him, put her off.
    Just as well, she thought. Wouldn't
want to have an old man running after me. Marie gave her age as
sixty-two, but she probably could pass for ten or fifteen years
younger. In her business, age seemed to give her clients more faith
in her. Her bleached spun-gold hair was cut short to emphasize her
delicate features. Her brown eyes were dark and penetrating with
the sense that she was always in control. And her body was in
pretty good shape. Not the same as when she was in her twenties and
thirties, but still more zaftig than obese. The past
century-and-a-half had been good to her.
    Marie tossed her foam kneel cushion on the
ground. Her Blanc Double de Coubert and Frau Dagmar Hastrup roses
needed trimming, while the Hansa roses needed trimming and love. She missed the purplish-red color of her Hansas. The buds
just never bloomed completely. She had made a careful examination
for aphids but only found a few. During the winter she had built
mounds around the bushes and laid straw atop the mounds. The white
and pink roses were doing