Thirst

I wake to moonlight.

The automated drapes glide open with their programmed whisper, and pale silver floods across my bed like a lover's caress. The light finds me tangled in black satin sheets, the fabric clinging to the contours of my body—the ridges of my abdomen, the expanse of my chest, the hard length of my cock straining against the silk.

Always like this. Always.

Three hundred years, and still I wake with this savage trinity of needs coiled tight in my gut: hunger, lust, ****. They're inseparable now, three heads of the same beast that drives me from dusk to dawn.

I drag a hand through my hair—thick, dark, falling just past my shoulders—and sit up. The satin slides down my torso, pooling at my hips. My reflection catches in the floor-to-ceiling windows: pale skin that hasn't seen sunlight in centuries, muscles carved from marble, the sharp architecture of my face that makes mortals stumble over their words. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, lips that promise either a kiss or a killing bite.

My cock throbs, heavy and demanding between my thighs.

The penthouse stretches around me in shadows and gothic opulence—vaulted ceilings, wrought iron fixtures, velvet and leather and dark wood. Forty stories above the city, where the mortals scurry through their brief little lives, oblivious to the predator watching from above.

I stand, letting the sheets fall away entirely. Naked, aroused, magnificent in the moonlight. My hand trails down my abdomen, fingers tracing the V of muscle that leads to my groin. I wrap my hand around my shaft, give it one slow stroke from base to tip. The sensation makes something dark and pleased rumble in my chest.

But this isn't what I need.

My fangs descend, sharp points pressing against my lower lip. The hunger intensifies, spreading from my belly outward until every nerve ending screams for it. For blood. For the heat of it sliding down my throat, the rush as a heartbeat falters beneath my mouth, the exquisite moment when pleasure and **** intertwine.

The city below pulses with prey. I can almost hear their hearts from here, that collective thunder of mortal life. Millions of them, and they have no idea what walks among them.

I move to the window, pressing one palm against the cold glass. My reflection superimposes over the glittering cityscape—a ghost, a god, a monster. My erection hasn't flagged; if anything, thinking about the hunt has made me harder. The two hungers feed each other, intertwining until I can't separate carnal desire from the need to feed.

Tonight. Tonight I'll satisfy both.

But how?