The second that bedroom door clicked shut with that sharp snap, the sound echoed in my chest like it was sealing something in. I thought right away: "Yeah, Rafaella... you're gonna have to do this."
Out in the living room, my cousin had left the TV on. The muffled sounds filtered through the door—canned laughter from some dumbass show, jingly commercials—like the world was still spinning on like normal while I was stuck in here. The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, smelling like clean sheets mixed with a faint cologne from a guy I didn't even know.
My heart was pounding way too hard. Thumping in my throat, my temples, the tips of my fingers. It was fucking uncomfortable. For the first time in my life, I felt exactly like some street hooker. I had to spread my legs for a stranger, without a drop of horniness, without that spark that usually made my pussy throb just from thinking about it, without any real desire. It was just a deal. Just to score the key to that apartment.
And the worst part: it was a ridiculously cheap gig. As I looked around, I did the math in my head. Rent a thousand reais. My cousin splitting it, five hundred each. Once a week came out to a hundred twenty-five bucks a pop. A hundred twenty-five reais. My God... was that what I was worth now? My skin crawled all over at the thought—it was so damn cheap.
Daniel sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped a little under his weight. He spoke in a calm voice, almost gentle:
— Make yourself at home, girl.
I was still standing. My whole body tense as hell. I stared around the room so I wouldn't have to look at him. The afternoon sun filtered through the half-open blinds, drawing golden stripes on the floor. For a guy living alone, it was pretty tidy. Bookshelf made of recycled wood, with those nice imperfections, stuffed with books. Mostly thick study guides, textbooks, vestibular prep stuff. The smell of old paper hung in the air, mixed with the scent of freshly changed bedsheets.
He noticed me checking it out.
— You like to read?
— Yeah, I do — I answered. My voice came out quieter than I wanted.
I started talking about Game of Thrones, that I was on the third book of A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin. My throat felt dry, but the words came out. He said he was into it too, but he only watched the show. Hadn't gotten the books yet.
That's when the conversation started flowing. We got into the fifth season, which was blowing up back then. We talked theories, guesses... what we thought would happen, each defending our bets, laughing our asses off at our own crazy conspiracies.
I was still standing, arms crossed over my chest like that could protect me. He looked at me then and said:
— Sit down here, girl. I promise I don't bite.
I laughed—a short, nervous, almost forced laugh—and finally sat next to him. The mattress sank a bit more, my hip brushing lightly against his thigh. I felt the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of my dress.
— Oh, I kinda like bites — I said, laughing, trying to sound casual, and added that I loved vampire stories.
I told him I was obsessed with The Vampire Diaries, counting down the days to the seventh season, and that I'd read all the Twilight books. The words came easier now, my heart still racing, but my body starting to loosen up a little.
He laughed deep and hearty, a rumble in his chest.
He said he was into vampires too, but preferred the classic ones, not these modern pussies who went out in the daytime like regular folks.
— You like those sparkly little vamps in the sun, huh? — he teased, his tone light and playful.
I rolled my eyes, laughing with him, feeling heat creep up my cheeks. The laugh came out more real this time.
— Oh, shut up. I love TVD — I said, still laughing, the sound coming freer now, almost relieved to be talking about something I actually dug.
— I like vampires too... but the originals. The real ones, like Count Dracula. Not these ones wandering around in daylight like normal people...
When he said "Count Dracula," it hit me with this intense flash from my childhood—I could almost smell that old book scent again. Me, little as hell, poking around my dad's huge library. The room was massive, with shelves going up to the ceiling. It smelled like varnished wood, ancient paper, and dust. I loved sneaking in there, climbing the shelves, stretching to reach the forbidden ones. My dad would give orders through my mom, who kept repeating "don't touch those books, Rafa; your dad won't like it," but I'd touch them anyway, heart pounding with pure adrenaline.
I remember finding that old book with the worn cover, dark brown leather, cracked at the edges, gold letters almost faded: The Count of Monte Cristo. My kid brain made the most obvious connection ever: if it had "Count" in the title, then boom, vampire story! My chest tightened with excitement. I pictured shadowy castles, open coffins, fangs gleaming in the dark, blood dripping slow down some pale, mysterious chin.
I read the first lines expecting moonlight nights, bats, neck bites, blood spilling across the pages. Nothing. Just some guy locked in a damp cell, talking betrayal, revenge, ships and treasures. I flipped pages faster, desperate, hunting for any scene with sharp teeth, dripping blood. Nada. I stared confused, brow furrowed, saying out loud: "Huh... where's the vampire?"
He raised an eyebrow, curious, tilting his head to the side.
— What?
— Nothing... — I bit my lip, trying to hold back the laugh, but my eyes were already watering from it. — It's just when you said "Count Dracula," it reminded me of when I was a kid and thought The Count of Monte Cristo was a vampire book.
He smirked sideways, that smile that shifted the whole vibe in the room.
— You really love vampires, huh?
— Yeah, I do — I said, smiling, feeling my face heat up.
He leaned in close to me, his body almost pressed against mine, his warmth invading my space.
— Then watch out...
— Why? — I asked, my voice dropping lower, my heart kicking up again.
— 'Cause this vampire bites for real.
I swear... the way he said it, husky, right in my ear, lit my whole body up. A hot shiver ran from my nape down to the base of my spine, my skin prickled all over, my belly clenched, and down there, the little traitor, I felt my pussy pulse lightly, even with all the earlier discomfort still lurking.
Suddenly he was staring at me hard, his dark eyes roaming slow over my face, my mouth, dipping to the neckline of my dress.
— What? — I asked, curious, already feeling the air thicken.
— It's just... you're so fucking beautiful... I wanna bite you all over, you know?
— Mmm... — I replied with a low laugh, the sound coming out half-nervous, half-naughty, because deep down I knew where this was headed.
He pressed closer. His body hot, almost glued to mine, the scent of his skin taking over again.
He rested his hand on my thigh. Broad palm, warm, soft, heavy with intent. His touch was like a wordless ask to push things further.
And I didn't answer with words. I just let my legs part a little, my body giving in before my head. He started sliding up slow, fingers gliding smooth over the inner skin of my thigh, under the dress, raising goosebumps on every inch he touched. My skin prickled everywhere, a delicious chill mixing with heat rising in my gut. I bit my lips hard, heart pounding erratic, a wild mix of nerves and arousal I didn't want but couldn't deny, throbbing away.
To be continued...