I woke with a start. Samael was sucking at my breast, groggy, his skin smelled of cinnamon aftershave, and his long hair fell across my unlaced Victorian nightgown – purple this time, in contrast against my red-violet hair, and he groaned, stroking himself, robe untied and cock erect.
I arched my back as his lips and fangs grazed my right breast's peak. He shifted to the left, then rolled my right decolletage with his palm and thumb, squeezing and flicking the tender pink peaks. I felt myself grow drenched at the joining of my thigh as he nursed like a starved saint at Agatha's divine breast. Oh god, that metaphor – my Irish Catholic roots were at it again!
