Vampire collage pt. 2 Holiday Happy Endings.

Chapter 3: Thanksgiving feast

With Sam now in a full relationship with Hilda, Things began to turn more interesting. Hilda had begun to spend more time over at his place. The half unpacked suitcase she left in the front room, the clothes left lying just about everywhere. Hilda the vampire was also Hilda the slob. But Sam loved that about her as well. The guidance they got from Professor Meaker helped them. She was always looking out for them. She was both a teacher and a friend.

The third time Sam's phone buzzed against his thigh during Professor Meaker's lecture on Gothic Revival architecture, he nearly knocked his coffee over. The preview of Hilda's latest photo—just the curve of her hip disappearing beneath the edge of one of his t-shirts—burned brighter than the stained-glass windows Meaker was projecting. He flipped his notebook shut with more force than necessary and caught Meaker's raised eyebrow from across the room. She didn't pause her lecture, just tapped the slide remote with deliberate calm while Sam's ears burned hotter than a vampire caught in daylight.

The teasing lasted exactly twenty-three days—not that Sam was counting—before Professor Meaker finally confiscated his phone during her seminar on Victorian-era crypt designs. Hilda’s latest text, something involving candle wax and the phrase "I’ll make you howl," flashed on the screen just as Meaker plucked it from his hands with the practiced ease of a woman who’d spent centuries dealing with unruly students. Sam watched in mute horror as her thumbs flew over the keyboard before she dropped the phone into her cardigan pocket with a smirk. Across the lecture hall, Hilda’s own phone buzzed. Her triumphant grin dissolved into wide-eyed panic when she read Meaker’s reply: "Not during class."

For the rest of the session, Hilda sat unnaturally still, hands folded primly on her desk like a chastised schoolgirl. It would’ve been convincing if Sam hadn’t caught the way her foot tapped impatiently against the floorboards—three rapid beats, then a pause, like she was counting down the minutes until she could pounce. The second Meaker dismissed them, Hilda materialized at Sam’s side, her fingers already working at the top button of his shirt. “She ruined my buildup,†Hilda hissed, nipping at his earlobe as she dragged him toward the exit. “Now you owe me a do-over.â€

Home was always a blur after these encounters. The front door would barely click shut before Hilda had him pinned against it, her laughter muffled against his collarbone as she peeled off his jacket with vampiric efficiency. Their lovemaking was equal parts playful and relentless—Hilda treated intimacy like an art form, mapping every gasp and shiver with the precision of a scholar annotating a rare manuscript. She adored discovering new ways to unravel him: teeth scraping lightly down his ribs, cold fingers tracing patterns along his spine until he writhed beneath her. But Sam had learned to recognize the glint in her eye when she was gearing up for mischief—the same look she got right before texting him in class.

Sam had known something was up when Hilda started humming show tunes while sharpening the carving knife—not because she ever cooked silently, but because she only hummed show tunes when plotting something particularly wicked. The scent of roasting garlic and thyme curled through the apartment, mingling unnervingly with the metallic tang of the blade she kept testing against her thumb. "You're going to need that for the turkey, right?" Sam asked, eyeing the knife as Hilda twirled it between her fingers with the casual flair of a circus performer.

"Mm, turkey," Hilda agreed absently, though the way her pupils dilated had nothing to do with poultry. She'd been "accidentally" brushing against him all morning—hips bumping his as she reached for the pepper grinder, cold fingers lingering on his wrist when passing him a spoon—each touch charged with the same barely-contained energy she got before pulling some outrageous stunt. By the time she draped herself over his back to peer into the oven, her breath ghosting over his ear as she murmured, "Needs another twenty minutes," Sam was certain the real meal wouldn't be served at the dining table.

The first clue was the apron—or rather, the lack thereof. Hilda, who usually treated cooking like a hazardous chemical experiment requiring full protective gear, was wearing nothing but one of Sam's dress shirts, the tails just barely grazing the tops of her thighs. Every time she bent to baste the turkey, the fabric rode up enough to reveal the lace-edged stockings she definitely hadn't been wearing when they'd gone grocery shopping that morning. "Forgot the apron?" Sam ventured, watching her deliberately drip rosemary butter down the shirt's front before licking it off with exaggerated relish.

The roast turkey gleamed under the kitchen lights, its golden skin crackling with perfectly rendered fat—Hilda had basted it every twenty minutes like some sacred ritual, murmuring old-world incantations under her breath as she brushed rosemary-infused butter across its surface. Sam's stomach growled just looking at it, but the ache in his chest was louder. Thanksgiving had always been his mother's holiday, her cranberry sauce lumpy with orange zest, her stuffing dense with chestnuts and apologies for his father's empty chair.

Hilda didn't mention any of that. Instead, she pressed a cold kiss to his temple and slid a plate in front of him piled impossibly high—turkey slices fanned like playing cards, mashed potatoes whipped cloud-light, gravy dark as molasses pooling around everything. "Eat," she commanded, straddling the bench beside him in nothing but his shirt, the buttons straining dangerously. "I didn't spend six hours whispering sweet nothings to a bird for you to stare at it like it's going to bite back."

The first bite was embarrassing—a moan ripped from him before he could stop it, eyes fluttering shut at the burst of sage and caramelized skin. When he opened them, Hilda was watching with predatory satisfaction, her knife hovering over her own untouched portion. "You're not eating," he pointed out, nudging her knee with his under the table.

Hilda's grin widened as she scraped her knife lightly against the edge of her plate—a sound that made Sam's pulse jump even before she leaned in close enough for her breath to frost his earlobe. "Patience makes everything sweeter," she murmured, dragging the flat of the blade down his forearm in a slow, teasing stroke that left goosebumps in its wake. Across the table, the untouched turkey glistened under its blanket of gravy, but Sam suddenly couldn't remember what hunger felt like.

Hilda smiled at him with a wicked grin. "I'm saving up for dessert." Sam knew what that meant. Part of him was looking forward to it. The meal was amazing. Hilda truly was a master cook when she put her mind to it. Her cold fingers traced lazy circles on his wrist as she watched him chew, her pupils dilated like a cat spotting prey—except Sam was fairly certain cats didn't lick their lips quite like that. The scrape of her knife against porcelain sent an anticipatory shiver down his spine.

Sam barely had time to register the fleeting warmth of Hilda’s lips—softer than usual, almost hesitant—before she slipped away from the table with a rustle of fabric. The hem of his dress shirt flirted with the tops of her thighs as she padded toward the bedroom, her stockinged feet silent on the hardwood. The door clicked shut behind her with deliberate finality, leaving him alone with the remains of their Thanksgiving feast and the phantom pressure of her fingers still circling his wrist.

Sam waited exactly three minutes—long enough for his pulse to stop rabbiting against his ribs, not nearly long enough for common sense to catch up—before pushing away from the table. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, which should've been his first warning. Hilda never left anything to chance.

The second warning was the scent—rich vanilla and something darker curling through the crack in the door—but by then his fingers were already brushing the knob. The knock was perfunctory, a formality neither of them ever observed, and when he stepped inside the room was warmer than it had any right to be. Then he saw the bed.

Hilda sprawled across the rumpled duvet like a Renaissance painting gone deliciously wrong, her pale skin practically glowing against the dark sheets. Whipped cream peaked over her nipples in perfect dollops, another decadent swirl just barely concealing the pink between her thighs. She'd arranged herself with the precision of a pastry chef decorating a cake—one knee drawn up just so, fingers splayed across her belly in false modesty. The effect was ruined by the wicked gleam in her eyes, the way her tongue darted out to catch a stray droplet of cream at the corner of her mouth.

Sam's fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the whipped cream, the contrast of cool cream against his warm skin making him shiver before he even touched her. Hilda watched him through half-lidded eyes, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in anticipation. When he finally pressed his cream-coated finger to her mouth, she closed her lips around it with deliberate slowness, her fangs grazing his knuckle just enough to make his breath hitch. The suction was obscene—calculated—and when she released him with a pop, the smug arch of her eyebrow dared him to look away first.

He didn't. Instead, Sam peeled off his shirt in one fluid motion, the fabric catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The air was thick with the scent of vanilla and Hilda's arousal, heady enough to make his head spin as he knelt over her. Her skin was cool beneath his palms as he traced the line of her collarbone, the dip of her sternum, the curve of her waist—memorizing her like she was a map he'd never get tired of exploring. When he finally leaned down to kiss her, she arched up to meet him halfway, her mouth already open and waiting.

Sam's fingers glided through whipped cream and warmth, sliding into Hilda with practiced ease. Her gasp vibrated against his lips—half surprise, half triumph—as she arched into his touch, her thighs clamping around his wrist like a velvet vise. The contrast of cold cream and her molten heat made his breath stutter; he could feel every flutter of her inner walls as they clenched around his fingers, the way her hips jerked when he curled them just so. Their tongues never stopped moving—Hilda tasted like cinnamon and the wine they'd had with dinner, her fangs occasionally scraping his lower lip in a way that sent sparks down his spine.

His fingers kept thrusting even after her orgasm, relentless in their rhythm, refusing to let her come down from the high so easily. Sam knew exactly how she liked it—the slow, dragging curl of his fingertips against that spot inside her that made her thighs tremble, the way he’d pause just long enough for her to whimper before starting again. Hilda’s back arched off the bed, her fingers twisting in the sheets as he moved his mouth down her neck, his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses that left her skin tingling. When he reached her breasts, he paused, his breath hot against the curve of her left nipple, already stiff and pebbled from the cool cream and his attention.

Sam licked a slow, deliberate stripe around the peak, swirling his tongue through the whipped cream until it melted against her skin. Hilda gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily as his fingers pressed deeper inside her, coaxing another shuddering wave of pleasure from her oversensitive body. He didn’t let up, didn’t give her a moment to recover—just closed his lips around her nipple and sucked, hard enough to make her cry out. The sharp sting of his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh sent a jolt straight to her core, and she clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging in just shy of breaking skin.

Her second orgasm hit like a tidal wave—Hilda's back arched so violently Sam heard the bedframe groan in protest. The scent of her arousal flooded the room, mingling with melted cream and the faint ozone tang of her vampiric energy sparking uncontrolled through her fingertips. Claw marks bloomed across his shoulders where she'd scrabbled for purchase, but Sam didn't flinch. Instead, he pressed his thumb against her oversensitive clit in slow, deliberate circles, watching her thighs tremble with the effort not to clamp shut. "Oh no you don't," he murmured against the racing pulse in her throat. "We're just getting started."

Hilda's fangs dug into her own lower lip hard enough to draw blood—the metallic tang bloomed across Sam's tongue when he kissed her, swallowing her whimpers. She could've thrown him across the room with a twitch of her wrist, could've vanished into mist between one heartbeat and the next. Instead, her hips stuttered in helpless little circles against his palm, her body betraying her even as she growled, "Cheater," into his mouth.

Sam laughed—a dark, breathless sound that vibrated against her collarbone—and slid two fingers back inside her without breaking rhythm. The obscene squelch of her arousal made Hilda's ears burn hotter than daylight. "You taught me this," he reminded her, curling his fingers just enough to make her see stars. "All those nights you spent showing me exactly how vampires come undone?" His free hand traced the delicate shell of her ear, following the path she'd once demonstrated with clinical precision during their first month together. "Consider this a field test."

"Oh fuck you!" she mumbled out, the words muffled against his collarbone where her fangs had just grazed the skin. Sam smiled down at her, thumb brushing a smear of whipped cream from the corner of her swollen lips. "If you insist."

It happened faster than human reflexes could track—one moment he was looming over her, the next the world tilted violently as Hilda flipped them with vampiric speed. The headboard rattled against the wall as Sam's back hit the mattress, Hilda's knees bracketing his hips with predatory precision. Her pupils had blown completely black, the usual playful glint replaced by something far more dangerous as she leaned down until their noses brushed. "Let's make things a bit sweeter," she purred, licking a stripe up his throat that made his pulse jump beneath her tongue.

Sam's laughter caught in his throat when Hilda produced the bottle with a magician's flourish—one slender arm reaching behind her to pluck it from some unseen hiding place. The glass gleamed under the dim bedroom light as she uncapped it with her teeth, the sound of the seal breaking obscenely loud in the charged silence between them. The first thick ribbon of chocolate sauce hit his cock with a startling coldness that made his hips jerk involuntarily, the contrast against his heated skin almost painful in its intensity. Hilda's grin widened as she watched the viscous liquid pool in the creases before sliding down the length of him, her tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet at the base before it could drip onto the sheets.

The first press of her lips was warmer than he expected—Hilda usually ran cold, but the heat of her mouth now was almost human as she enveloped him with deliberate slowness. The chocolate's bitter-sweetness bloomed across his tongue before he even realized she'd transferred a mouthful to him via a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. When she pulled away, a thin strand of saliva and melted chocolate connected them for a heartbeat before snapping, her lips already descending again with renewed purpose.

Sam's fingers tangled in her hair—not guiding, just anchoring himself as she worked him over with a rhythm that bordered on cruel. Hilda would take him deep until his thighs trembled, then retreat to swirl her tongue around the head in teasing circles that left him gasping. Every time he thought he'd found her pattern, she'd switch tactics—dragging her fangs lightly along the underside one moment, hollowing her cheeks with obscene suction the next. The chocolate made everything slicker, hotter, the scent of cocoa and sex thick enough to taste with every ragged inhale.

Sam's breath hitched as Hilda leaned back, her lips glistening with chocolate and spit, the bottle poised over him like she was about to drizzle icing on a cake. The first thick ribbon of sauce hit his cock with a shock of cold that made his hips jerk involuntarily—only for Hilda to press a frigid palm flat against his stomach, pinning him to the mattress with effortless vampiric strength. "Stay," she purred, dragging the tip of the bottle in slow, looping patterns that left trails of chocolate branching across his skin like some obscene river delta.

Hilda's tongue traced a molten path up Sam's chest, following the chocolate trails with the precision of a cartographer mapping undiscovered territory. When she reached his left nipple, she paused—just long enough for him to gasp—before closing her lips around the sensitive bud with deliberate slowness. Her fangs scraped the tender flesh in a way that made his back arch off the mattress, the sting of sharpness tempered by the sweetness of the chocolate still melting between them. A thin trickle of sauce mixed with saliva escaped the corner of her mouth as she pulled away, the droplet landing on his sternum with a warmth that contrasted sharply with her usual coolness.

That's when Sam flipped her onto her back, his fingers slick with chocolate as he wrestled her down with surprising strength—for a human. The bottle made a wet, glugging sound as he poured its contents onto her breasts, dark ribbons oozing between the pale curves until they looked like some decadent dessert platter. Hilda threw her head back and laughed, her fangs glinting in the dim light, the sound rich and unguarded in a way that still made Sam's chest tighten even after all this time. She knew exactly what was coming next—had known since the moment she'd bought that damn bottle—but the anticipation thrumming through her veins was sweeter than any candy.

Sam pushed his chocolate-coated cock deep into her pussy, the thick syrup creating an obscene squelch as their bodies connected. Hilda's back arched off the mattress with a sharp cry—half-growl, half-moan—her fangs flashing in the dim light as her hips lifted to meet him. "Oh fuck yes!" The words ripped from her throat raw and unfiltered, her nails scoring crescent moons into his shoulders as he started thrusting without preamble.

The first few strokes were messy—chocolate smearing across her thighs, pooling in the hollow of her navel, flecking the sheets in dark droplets as their bodies slapped together. Hilda's breasts bounced with each snap of his hips, the chocolate-drenched peaks glistening under the bedroom lights. Sam could feel the tension coiling in her thighs, the way her inner muscles fluttered around him like she was already teetering on the edge. Sweat beaded along his collarbone, tracing the same path her tongue had taken earlier, the salt of it mingling with the sweetness still clinging to their skin.

Hilda's back arched violently as Sam's thrusts grew rougher, her thighs clamping around his waist with enough force to bruise a lesser man. "Yes! Give it to me!" she snarled into the crook of his neck, her fangs scraping his skin without breaking the surface—just enough to make his pulse jump against her lips. When Sam hauled her upright in one fluid motion, their chests collided with a wet slap, chocolate sauce oozing between their slick bodies like molten sin. The cold stickiness of it only seemed to spur him on—his tongue lashed across her left nipple with deliberate roughness, swirling through the mess of cream and chocolate until she saw stars.

The scent of her own arousal was dizzying—Hilda could feel it dripping down her thighs, could taste it thick in the back of her throat every time Sam's cock bottomed out inside her. His fingers dug into the meat of her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pistoned into her, the wet slap of skin-on-skin drowning out the creak of the bedsprings. She'd meant to tease him, to draw this out until he begged, but the way his teeth grazed her collarbone sent electricity straight to her core, short-circuiting every last shred of self-control.

She could feel it building—that coiled-tight tension deep in her belly, the kind that made her fangs ache and her vision swim with static. Hilda's thighs trembled around Sam's waist, her nails carving half-moons into his shoulders as she arched against him. "Fucking do it, baby!" The words tore from her throat raw and desperate, her hips pistoning against his with vampiric precision. Chocolate smeared between their bodies, gone sticky-warm from friction, the scent of sex and sugar thick enough to taste. "Release your sperm into me!"

Sam bit down hard on her right nipple—not the teasing graze of before, but a claiming pressure that made her back bow off the mattress. The sharp sting bloomed through her chest just as his thrusts turned erratic, his rhythm fracturing into something primal. Hilda's climax hit like a live wire, her scream shredding into a guttural cry as his release flooded her—hot and thick and human—mixing with the chocolate still slick between them. "OOOOHHHH FUCK YES BABY!" Her voice cracked on the last syllable, her fangs sinking into her own lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

She could feel his semen flow into her. "Yes baby! That's what I want!" Sam wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. His mouth met hers in a kiss that tasted of chocolate and copper—deep enough to drown in, loving enough to make her centuries-old heart stutter. Hilda melted against him like candle wax, her forehead coming to rest against his damp shoulder as their panting breaths synchronized. A drop of chocolate sauce slid from her collarbone onto his chest, joining the mess already painting their skin in sticky, decadent streaks. "Now that's a perfect Thanksgiving," he whispered into her hair, his voice rough with spent passion.

Chapter 4: Christmas Vacation.

The overhead compartment light flickered like a dying firefly as Sam tugged his seatbelt tighter. Outside the airplane window, Vegas glittered like a spilled jewelry box—all neon and false promises—but his fingers still tingled where Hilda's nipple had pebbled against his palm minutes earlier. She'd practically melted into the driver's seat when he'd squeezed her through that ridiculously thin blouse, her fangs catching his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste still lingered, metallic and sweet as the cherry lip balm she'd swiped from his duffel bag that morning.

"It never took much, did it?" Sam murmured against Hilda's throat, grinning as she arched into his touch with a shuddering moan. Her fangs scraped his jawline when she turned to capture his mouth, the kiss tasting of cherry lip balm and the faint iron tang where she'd nicked him earlier. Outside, a baggage cart beeped its way across the tarmac, the sound barely registering over the pounding of his pulse.

"Fuck no, baby!" Hilda gasped when he squeezed again, her fingers tightening around his wrist hard enough to leave crescent indents. The thin fabric of her blouse did nothing to hide how perfectly her body responded to him—every hitch of her breath, every involuntary twitch of her hips telegraphing her arousal with embarrassing clarity. Sam filed the reaction away with all the others he'd cataloged over the past months, each one more precious than the last.

He smiled and gave her one more quick kiss—chaste by their standards—before pulling away to grab his carry-on from the backseat. The desert air hit his flushed skin like a bucket of ice water after the cocoon of heat they'd generated in the car. "I love you!" Hilda called out through the half-open window, her voice carrying across the idling traffic with vampiric clarity.

Sam looked deep into her eyes. "I love you too, baby." He gently closed the door and headed inside the airport, the weight of her gaze lingering on his back like a phantom touch. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, cutting off the desert night and the scent of her cherry lip balm still clinging to his collar.

The first night without Hilda, Sam woke to phantom fingertips tracing his ribs—the sensation so vivid he rolled over expecting to find her smirking at him, but the bed was cold and empty. His phone buzzed at 3:17 AM with a photo of Hilda sprawled across their bed wearing nothing but his favorite tie knotted loosely around her throat. The caption read: "Forgot something?" He could almost hear her laughter when he replied with a string of emojis.

The prank calls started innocently enough—a wrong number at 2 AM asking if his refrigerator was running, Hilda's voice pitched comically low with poorly suppressed giggles crackling through the line. By Wednesday, Sam had developed Pavlovian reactions to his ringtone—his pulse jumping at every vibration, his fingers twitching toward his phone before the second ring. Each call was more ridiculous than the last: Hilda pretending to be a telemarketer selling "essence of vampire" perfumes, a muffled Meaker in the background stage-whispering "Tell him it glows in the dark!"

FaceTime was worse. Or better. Sam couldn't decide. Seeing Hilda's fangs catch the light as she lounged in their bed—his bed now, apparently—wearing nothing but his university hoodie zipped just high enough to tease nearly short-circuited his prefrontal cortex. Once, mid-call, Meaker wandered into frame wearing oven mitts and holding what looked suspiciously like a blood bag popsicle. "Don't mind me," she deadpanned, licking the crimson drip sliding down the plastic. "Just nourishing my immortal soul."

Sam nearly tripped over his own suitcase when the scent of pine cleaner hit him—not the harsh chemical kind, but the warm, woodsy variety that made him think of Christmas mornings. Every surface gleamed in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. No stray socks draped over the couch, no half-empty coffee cups collecting rings on the side tables. Even the books on the shelf stood at perfect attention, spines aligned with military precision.

The note fluttered against the bathroom door as steam curled beneath it, the edges already curling from humidity. Sam peeled it off with a smirk—Hilda's handwriting slanted sharply downward like she'd written it while running somewhere, the ink smeared in one corner where she'd clearly licked her thumb to smooth the paper. Present in the fridge with three unnecessary underlines and a doodle of what might've been a fanged smiley face or possibly a very excited soccer ball.

The fridge door hissed open to reveal a six-pack of Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier—smoked malt so rare even Hilda's usual black-market connections struggled to source it. Sam's fingers hovered over the embossed label, tracing the brewery's medieval crest with something dangerously close to reverence. The bottle opener hung from the fridge handle by a red ribbon, its polished surface still warm from Hilda's hands.

Sam popped the cap off with practiced ease, the smoky-sweet aroma hitting him before the first sip even touched his lips. The beer tasted like liquid campfire—charred oak and caramelized malt with an earthy undertone that made his taste buds sing. Halfway through the bottle, he spotted the second note tucked inside the six-pack's cardboard divider, the paper slightly warped from condensation.

"Come wash my back" in Hilda's messy scrawl, punctuated with a lopsided heart. Sam snorted into his beer, bubbles fizzing against his upper lip. Typical fucking Hilda—always one step ahead, always leaving him equal parts exasperated and aroused. His t-shirt hit the kitchen floor before he'd taken three steps, socks kicked off somewhere near the hallway radiator.

By the time he reached the bathroom door—left strategically ajar—he was down to skin and an erection that bobbed in time with his heartbeat. Steam curled through the crack like tendrils of mist, carrying the scent of bergamot and something darker underneath. Sam pushed the door open with his hip, beer bottle dangling from two fingers. "Hey Baby" Hilda murmured without turning around, her voice dripping with false propriety. Her silhouette wavered through the shower's fogged glass, one arm raised to rinse shampoo from her hair.

Sam stepped into the shower, the hot water instantly fogging his glasses as the curtain hissed shut behind him. Hilda stood with her back to him, fingers working through the soapy dark waves of her hair, watching the suds slide down the intricate spiderweb tattoo spanning her shoulder blades—the ink momentarily frosted white before dissolving in the steam. She turned with that slow, knowing smile of hers, water sluicing between her breasts. "Well?" Her voice dripped mock indignation. "Where's mine?"

He handed over the bottle, condensation slick against his palm. Hilda took it with a predator's grace, her fingers brushing his just long enough to make his pulse jump. She tipped her head back and chugged the rauchbier in three throaty gulps, rivulets of amber liquid escaping the corners of her mouth to trace her collarbones. The bottle clattered into the shower caddy as she exhaled with exaggerated satisfaction, licking her lips with deliberate slowness. "Mm. Tastes like Berlin in '38." Her fangs gleamed when she grinned. "Minimal stabbing."

Sam's fingers traced the water droplets cascading down Hilda's spine before gripping her hips with sudden possessiveness, pulling her flush against him. The contrast of their temperatures always startled her—how his human warmth seeped into her undead flesh like sunlight through stained glass. She exhaled through her fangs, a sound too raw to be a sigh, as his lips found the junction where her neck met shoulder. The exact spot that made her knees weaken in 1897. The exact spot that still did.

"You're overdressed," she murmured against his collarbone, raking her nails down his chest hard enough to leave pink trails in the steam. Sam's chuckle vibrated against her fangs as he palmed her breasts with calloused hands, thumbs circling her nipples with just enough pressure to make her hiss. Water sluiced between their bodies as she arched into the touch, her moan bouncing off the shower tiles in broken echoes.

Hilda arched into Sam's arms with a groan, her damp back pressing against his chest as water sluiced between their bodies. "Fuck, I missed you," she sighed, tilting her head to expose the delicate shell of her ear. Sam caught it between his teeth—not quite biting, just enough pressure to make her shiver—before whispering, "Yeah, I bet. Especially since you've been texting my little brother while I was there."

Her laughter rang against the shower tiles, bright and unrepentant. "He was too cute not to mess with!" The words dissolved into a sharp gasp as Sam pinched both nipples hard—twisting just enough to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Hilda's cry tangled with her fading laughter, her hips jerking backward against his erection as her fingers scrambled against the slick shower wall for purchase.

"Punish me baby. I've been a bad little vampire." Hilda's lips trembled with suppressed laughter, her fangs catching the shower light as she arched her back in exaggerated submission. Water sluiced down the perfect curves of her ass, droplets scattering when Sam took a deliberate step back and brought his palm down with a crack that echoed off the tiles. The impact bloomed across her pale skin in a perfect red handprint—a temporary tattoo that made his cock twitch against her lower back.

"Oh fuck. Harder!" Her voice shattered into a moan halfway through the demand, her fingers scrambling against the wet tile as he delivered three more sharp slaps in quick succession. Each strike drew a different sound from her—a gasp, a whimper, a growl that vibrated through his chest where their bodies pressed together. The steam thickened with every ragged breath she took, her hips rolling backward in helpless little circles that smeared precome against his stomach.

"No more playing." Sam's fingers tangled in her sopping wet hair, using the grip to yank her head back until her throat stretched taut beneath his lips. He licked a stripe up the racing pulse there before biting down—not enough to break skin, just enough to make her shiver. "Fuck me like I'm your whore." The words tumbled from Hilda's lips in a breathless rush, her hips jerking when his free hand slid between her legs to find her already dripping.

Sam growled against her throat—a sound that would've been animal if not for the dark amusement threading through it. His fingers dug into the meat of her hip hard enough to bruise as he lined himself up, the head of his cock catching on her entrance for one torturous second before he sheathed himself in one brutal thrust. "You have always been my whore." The words came out ragged against the shell of her ear as her walls fluttered around him, hot and tight and perfect.

Sam pushed her forward with enough force to make the shower wall tremble, spreading her cheeks wide with both hands before driving into her with one brutal thrust. The water sluicing down their bodies turned the act obscenely slick—every snap of his hips drew filthy, wet sounds from where they were joined. "Oh yes, master," Hilda gasped into the tile, her breath fogging the ceramic as her fingers scrambled for purchase. "Impale me on your hard cock!"

Her body jerked forward with each punishing stroke, breasts swaying violently enough that the water streaming off her nipples arced through the steam in glittering trajectories. Sam watched, transfixed, as droplets caught the dim bathroom light mid-fall—tiny liquid chandeliers suspended between one thrust and the next. His grip on her hips tightened when he noticed the faint blue veins visible beneath her translucent skin, pulsing in time with the ragged moans being hammered out of her.

"Yes, baby!" Hilda cried out, her voice fracturing against the shower tiles as Sam's thrusts turned punishing. The sound of slapping flesh echoed off the porcelain—wet and obscene—each impact sending droplets scattering like liquid diamonds across the steamed glass. Hilda could feel it building, that coiled-tight pressure deep in her belly, the kind that made her fangs ache, and her vision swim with static. Her fingers scrabbled against the slick wall, blunt nails leaving ghostly trails in the condensation as she fought for purchase. Sam's grip on her hips tightened—his fingers digging into the bruises he'd already left—anchoring her as her knees threatened to buckle.

"Now, baby!" The words tore from her throat raw and desperate, her hips pistoning backward to meet him with vampiric precision. Steam curled between their bodies like living things, the heat doing nothing to mask the scent of sex and soap and the faint metallic tang where Sam's teeth had grazed her shoulder. "Now. Give it to me now!" Hilda's demand ended on a broken whimper as Sam angled his hips just right—that spot, always that spot—and her vision whited out for a heartbeat.

Sam took one more deep breath—Hilda felt the expansion of his ribs against her back—and shoved into her deep and hard. The impact rattled the shower caddy, sending bottles of shampoo clattering to the tiles as Hilda's scream ricocheted off the walls. Her climax hit like a live wire, electric and all-consuming, her inner muscles fluttering around him in erratic pulses. Sam didn't let up—couldn't let up—his rhythm fracturing into something primal as he chased his own release. The sound he made when he came was half-growl, half-prayer, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as his hips stuttered against her ass.

"YYYEEESSS!" she screamed. "FUCK YES!" Her thighs trembled violently as she felt Sam's release flood her—hot and thick and human—the force of it making her knees buckle. "Take it all, whore!" Sam growled against the nape of her neck, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises. Hilda's vision whited out as her body convulsed around him, her orgasm cresting in waves that left her gasping. The only thing keeping her upright was Sam's sheer strength, his arms wrapped around her waist like iron bands as he emptied himself into her with ragged, shuddering thrusts.

Hilda's body slumped against Sam's chest with the boneless exhaustion of a well-fucked vampire, her forehead pressing into the damp hollow of his collarbone. Steam curled around them in lazy spirals as the shower water cooled—the heat long since chased away by their frantic coupling. Sam traced idle patterns down the knobs of her spine, fingertips catching on the raised edges of her spiderweb tattoo where the ink still prickled with supernatural sensitivity.

"I love you," she murmured into his skin, the words muffled and softer than he'd ever heard from her—like someone had taken a cheese grater to her usual razor-sharp confidence. "Missed you." Her fangs scraped his pectoral when she spoke, the points dragging just hard enough to raise goosebumps without breaking skin.

Sam hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. Water droplets clung to her eyelashes like liquid diamonds, her pupils still blown wide with residual pleasure. "Missed you too, baby," he murmured before pressing a kiss to the space between her eyebrows—that spot that always made her sigh. Then his hands slid down to grip her waist, thumbs digging into the fresh bruises he'd left. "Now. Let's talk about those texts you sent my brother."