ONE

“Let me suck your cock.”

The vamp female tugged at Samson’s pants. She freed his flaccid shaft from the confinement of his jeans and sucked it into her gorgeous mouth. He watched her red lips close tightly around him as she worked him frantically. Up and down she moved, the warm wetness of her mouth lubricating him.

With her hand, she cupped his balls and squeezed them in perfect rhythm with her sucking. She was talented, no doubt. He buried his hands in her hair and moved his hips back and forth, trying to increase the friction.

“Harder.” His request was met with enthusiasm, her slurping sounds filling the dimly lit room.

He let his gaze sweep over her scantily clad body: hot curves, great ass, even a pretty face. Everything he could wish for in a sexual partner. Eager to give head, she would probably swallow too. Something he particularly appreciated. But despite feeling her tantalizing tongue run up and down his cock, despite the hard sucking motion, no erection was forthcoming. Her patience was wasted on him. Nothing moved.

Her head bobbed back and forth, her long brown hair brushing against his naked skin, catching in his pubic hair, but his body wasn’t in it, almost as if she was sucking off somebody else, not him.

Samson finally pushed her away, humiliated and frustrated. If vampires could blush from embarrassment, his face would have been as red as the vamp’s painted lips. Luckily, blushing was reserved for humans.

In lightning speed, he shoved his useless male equipment back into his pants and zipped up. Even faster, he fled her company. His only hope was that she would never know who he was. Good thing he was in a strange city and not back in San Francisco where he was as well-known as a pink horse.

A week after the embarrassing incident, his friend Amaury made a suggestion.

“Just give it a shot, Samson,” he insisted. “The guy is completely trustworthy. He won’t breathe a syllable to anybody about this.”

His old friend couldn’t possibly be serious. “A shrink? You want me to go see a shrink?”

“He’s helped me a lot before. What have you got to lose?”

His dignity; his pride.

“I guess if you vouch for him, I can give it a try.” And just like that, he’d caved. Was it desperation?

“And don’t judge him from the outside.”

The place was a joke. When Samson first entered the dark basement where the psychiatrist practiced, he wanted to run right back out. But the receptionist had already spotted him. With a saccharin-sweet smile and straightened back, she put her large chest on display.

Great, a shrink operating from a dungeon and a Barbie doll as the gatekeeper!

“Mr. Woodford, please come in. Dr. Drake is expecting you,” her high-pitched voice invited him.

Once he’d made his way into Drake’s office, he knew it was a mistake. Instead of a couch there was a coffin. One of the wooden side panels had been removed so a live person could lie down in it comfortably as if lying down on a chaise lounge.

The guy had to be a lunatic. No self-respecting modern vamp would want to be caught dead in a coffin! Vampires in San Francisco were mainstreaming, adapting to the human lifestyle. Coffins were out. Tempur-Pedic mattresses were in.

The lanky man rounded his desk and stretched out his hand to greet him.

“If you think I’m going to lie down in the coffin, you better think again,” Samson barked.

“I see we have our work cut out for us.” The doctor seemed unfazed by the rude remark. He pointed at the comfortable looking armchair. Reluctantly, Samson sat down.

Dr. Drake let himself fall in the chair opposite. As the doctor studied him for the first few minutes, Samson shifted nervously, hands clamped over the armrests of the chair.

“Can we get started? I believe I’m paying you by the hour.” Offensive was better than defensive, he’d learned early in life.

“We started the minute you came in here, but then I’m sure you knew that.” Dr. Drake’s smile was noncommittal, his voice even.

Samson narrowed his eyes, trying to block out the implied reprimand. “Indeed.”

“How long have you experienced these anger issues?”

The words were not what he’d expected. Maybe a question more along the lines of “So, what brings you here?” but not this direct assault on his already battered psyche. He should have asked Amaury more about the doctor’s methods before agreeing to make an appointment.

“Anger issues? I don’t have anger issues. I’m here for … the issue is … uh, my problem has to do with …” God, since when could he not say the word “sex” without being flustered? He’d never had any problems expressing himself when it came to sex. His vocabulary included many choice four-letter words he generally had no problem spurting from his lips whenever necessary.