About two hours later, tired and raw and sticky, Mhari comes to in the middle of the wreckage of a king-sized bed. She’s almost but not entirely naked—Oscar turned out to be a stockings man. He’s naked, too, lying on his back, snoring. She reaches out and wraps one hand possessively around his still-erect cock. She’s been working towards this moment for weeks: happily, it turned out to be much more fun than she’d expected. The snore turns to a groan and as he pulls away she notices that his penis is redder than the rest of his skin. Is that blood? she wonders. Or is he sore? She, too, aches: but she enjoyed getting there. She’s thirsty again, she realizes. “Hey, big boy.” She punches him gently in the side. “Wake up.”

“Um. Uh.” He opens his eyes and stares at her. If she’d been dressed, his look would make her feel naked; as it is, it makes her feel stripped to the bone. It’s a predator’s expression, innocent and deadly. Then he spoils it by cracking a dazed schoolboy smile. “That was wild!” Mhari is about to glare at him in disappointment but he recovers his poise within a couple of seconds. “I would kill for a drink.” He rolls on his side. “And I need a shower. How about you?”

“There are a couple of shots of blood in my bag. We can hit room service for food. Shower first?” She strips off her stockings and they move into the living room of the suite, ignore the dressing table set with a welcome bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne, and head straight to the marble bathroom with its huge walk-in shower and whirlpool bath. There’s room for two in the shower. “That was something else going on,” she murmurs thoughtfully, as he rubs soapy water across her skin. She can feel every square millimeter; she’s acutely, preternaturally sensitive.

“It’s the smell of”—he kisses her shoulder—“the red stuff.”

Mhari shudders and closes her eyes. It’s true. If drinking blood is an erotic experience, then sex under the influence is like . . . She fails to think of a suitable simile. Coke doesn’t even come close. The impulse to push him against the wall and fuck him in the shower is almost overpowering, despite the aches. “It’s addictive,” she says finally.

“Yes. Which is problematic.” The icy chill of his intellect is returning. There isn’t very much of the little boy left in Oscar; he didn’t get to his position without being able to keep it under very tight control. He’s not one for casual workplace flings, which makes her triumph all the sweeter. “Because, yes, we need it. Which is a weakness.”

“You’re thinking of the pawns.” She leans against him.

“Yes. I’m not planning to ditch them,” he adds carefully. “Not yet.”