The vampire said, “I would like to bring a smile to your face. I promise I won’t bite.”
“Please, oh please,” she said, “bite me, yes! I’m longing to feel your mouth between my legs!” She stood over him and planted her feet wide on either side of his coffin. Her upper legs opened and she thrust her hips, pushing herself closer to his mouth. The vampire grinned. He admired bold women. He said so to her.
“Do you see what you’re about to eat?” she said.
“A peach,” he said, “so juicy, overripe, liquid and fragrant.”
“Consume me,” she cried, “here in the soft, sighing night.”
“Poets are so velvety and tender.”
The vampire’s long tongue caressed her delicate flowering, causing her to judder in muted pleasure, and he savored her glisten akin not to peaches but ripe plums peeled under a honey-mellowed sun, bitten into with passion and musk. The effect on him was of no small consequence, either, as stars of unearthly delight danced and licked over grey matter, then penetrated and massaged in a delicate ballet into her depths, farther than he’d ever been, and there was nothing beyond the white-pink walls and blood red pool but little albino fish swimming. No asterisks warned him of their impending spiciness. He drank her pool and knew it was true: Everything essential to vampire culture is connected to consumption.
He ate her long into the hallowed night.
And she did smile.