Stepbrother Blood Lover

STEPBROTHER BLOOD LOVER
– BOOK ONE – BY LANA FOX

1.

Darren

I only remember fragments from the first night. I knew she was a woman with teeth that felt divine and ravaged my neck, filling my body with ecstatic darkness—a riot of release. It was a feeling of being fused with the earth, as if I’d become the soil, the roots, the buried depths of everything. I remember her long, soft hair, her breasts against my chest, and her thighs sliding bare against my own. Her scent was everywhere. At one point I howled with absolute bliss, my body so brimming with pleasure-charged power that my cock seemed to explode into the night, climax after climax hitting my trembling body. I drank from her throat too, deeply, powerfully, so that every mouthful delivered me to heights of pleasure. Even though her hands were on my chest and her fangs were at my throat, my cock responded sexually as if it was deep in her cunt, and that’s how it felt. These were the deepest set of orgasms I’d ever experienced. Pure bestial glee.

After that, I have only flashes of memory. So much new information was forming in my mind—I was understanding the world in dark new ways that seemed to sabotage my brain. I was unconscious for a while after the frenzy. When I woke I was alone, and I think I walked home. I didn’t care about the rough neighborhood because
I
was rough now, with the moon overhead and violence thudding behind my eyes.

I craved and I knew I could take. My prey was all around me. I could smell every human, their skin, their desires.

When women passed me, they craned their necks, staring at me thirstily through made-up eyes. Even those with a man draped around them sent me hankering gazes, as if they sensed what I’d give them if they surrendered. I could smell them, every inch of them: their perfume, their fears, their scented hair, their sweet, beating blood. This was suddenly a world of thirst, of flesh to bite, of perfect scents, of hands that clung to me desperately, and palpitating veins. I could bite with new teeth or stare with new eyes and orgasm deeply from that alone. So what would happen when I really fucked? I needed to find out.

Power rushed through me. I was hungry for my fill.

But the one I wanted most was Helene.

Helene always felt like a sister to me, not a
step
sister—stupid word—but flesh-and-blood family. That’s why my cravings had scared me in the past. A couple of years before, when she’d forgotten to lock the bathroom and I’d stepped in to find her standing there, eyes wide with alarm, I was nailed to the spot with lust. Nineteen years old, she was wet and naked, her ivory skin beaded with water from the shower, and I could only stare down her glistening body—her breasts so big and pale with plum-colored tips, and her hips the kind that could rock you to heaven. I hadn’t known my cock could get as hard as it did then.

Hard as steel.

That’s how it felt.

I was sixteen at the time, and my body was a constant surprise. Back in my room, I shocked myself by coming so hard that I covered the wall with come, just from one lustful sight of her naked body, just from the thought of her breasts, damp in my hands, so weighty and full as she moaned beneath me. I imagined my cock buried in her cunt, lunging into her over and over, as she called me
brother
. Oh yes, I could see that cock of mine so buried in that perfect cunt, unleashing stream after stream until her pussy was brimming….

I masturbated several times in a row. The whole house must have heard my cries.

After that, there were too many incidents to count. Once, she was leaving for a party, wearing a stunning blood red, backless dress. I hugged her goodbye and she smelled sublime, as if she’d rubbed lotion all over her skin, as if she’d bathed in cream and dusted her skin with powder. I pressed my hands onto her back, running them up and down her flesh. “You look stunning,” I said.

She clasped me close. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said, as serious as ever.

I pressed my lips to her neck—oh God, her skin was so warm!—and ran my fingers down her arms, still drenched in her scent. My cock was hard and I knew it.
Fuck
, my cock was hard. And standing in my arms, she gave the tiniest moan, as if she really wanted me, as if she could feel my hard-on. When she pulled back, ready to go, I moved with her, unable to resist, but with a swish of her hair she left me there in a cloud of scent, her sublime hips lilting as the door closed behind her.

After that, I stood on the spot for a good, long time, letting the fierceness of my arousal burn right into me. My lips felt wet, and when I touched them I realized my mouth had watered so manically, like a meat-craving animal, that my bottom lip was glossed in saliva. I’d been foaming at the mouth like some kind of beast to have my own sister’s body warm in my arms. I was a pervert, a sorry excuse for a human. My body felt thick with my need to come. I felt this arousal too deeply.

No sooner had I returned to my bedroom than I pulled out my cock and came, spurting out over my bedclothes, groaning like a lunatic. I cried her name—not that I meant to—and my climax was so deep that I stumbled forward, catching the wall to stop myself tumbling over the bed, my cock still shooting off, my groans still filling my throat. I was lucky our parents weren’t home because they’d have heard the whole thing.

All my cock wanted was Helene.

After that, things grew worse. On Helene’s twentieth birthday, she moved into the bigger room next door, which had been the spare room up till then. She wanted to move out, but her job didn’t pay her enough, and I used to pray she wouldn’t ever go. I’d think of her at night, sleeping next door, her long naked limbs so ready to be clasped, her wet pussy waiting to be plundered. Had she fucked other boys? Did she touch herself? Did she ever think of me when she did?

I started to buy porn mags, imagining the bodies were my sister’s. She had breasts like theirs, except hers were natural, but her body was curvier, paler, more voluptuous. But I’d never seen her cunt close up, so I’d watch porn stars’ cunts dreaming they were hers. Thanks to this, I’d spend whole nights jerking off, biting my hand to stop myself from yelling. Sometimes, I’d watch Helene through the keyhole as she undressed, her clothes falling from that perfect body, revealing so slowly the curve of her ass, the fullness of her breasts, her shapely thighs—so long, so pale—and the way her long, auburn hair shone in the evening light. I longed to sink my teeth into her body, run my hands over her every swell and slope.

I’d never wanted a woman like I wanted my sister, and yet I believed I could never have her. When we passed in the hallway, I’d almost lose my mind. When we watched television on the same couch, I’d try so hard not to stare down her body, to dream of licking, biting, fucking—
always
fucking. I’d have come on every inch of her, believe me, if I could. If I could have fucked Helene for a night I’d have happily died the next morning. I longed to bury my cock deep inside her, to make her moan with bliss, to make her plead with me to go harder. I wanted to fuck her and never, ever stop.

But I was her brother and it would have been wrong. That’s how I felt back then, before I was bitten. After the bite though, I coursed with such power that I could see the truth.

I was an animal.

And animals were hunters.

Helene

Before he changed, I’d always fancied Darren, but I knew it was wrong so I stayed away. The way I saw it, I deserved a real boyfriend who’d take me out for romantic meals or go on double dates with friends—not a twisted younger brother who wants to do things that brothers don’t do. Anyway, I did all right with boys because I have big tits and an accent. Being a Brit living in America makes the sexy boys pant for you. Just one “Bloody hell” and they’re asking you out.

But after Darren changed, everything changed.

He was utterly magnetic.

Before the change, he’d always been a perv with me, thinking I didn’t notice. Once too often he’d hugged me with wandering hands, and sometimes I’d even sense him watching me through the keyhole while I undressed. Grossly, I liked all this, and even dreamed about it, touching my clit too often, imagining he’d take me hard. But I also
hated
liking all this. After all, I didn’t want to be a perv like him. So I pretended I didn’t know his tongue was hanging out. I pretended he wasn’t sexy at all.

Like everyone in Lavender, I knew a lot about pretending. Many folks—my parents included—pretended vampires didn’t exist. Those of us who believed they were real just whispered about them, afraid to speak aloud, as every week, bodies were found drained and friends mysteriously disappeared. Yet we’d rarely grieve for those friends for long, or panic for our own lives—looking back, we were
incapable
of grief or fear when it came to vampires and their kills. Of course, that’s how the vampires wanted it. See, in spite of these deaths, we still went out at night, hardly realizing we were their prey. Frankly, everyone in Lavender was vampire-numb.

Of course, looking back now, I can see why.

Another thing I knew from the whisperings in Lavender was that vampires were wildly attractive and were powerful in the sack. But it wasn’t until Darren entered my bedroom that night, completely changed, that I felt the truth of this.

It happened just two years after we’d moved to America. When my bedroom door started to open, I’d just changed into a T-shirt, ready for bed. I was sitting there about to take my sleeping pill and turn off my bedside light, when suddenly there he was stepping into my room.

My jaw dropped. My pill rolled to the floor.

It’s hard to describe in words just exactly how he’d changed. It wasn’t to do with his height, though he did
seem
taller somehow. It was more to do with his energy. He glowed slightly, like a dimly lit bulb. If you’d walked into a busy bar, he’d have been the first thing you’d see because he’d occupy the space like he alone was in it. He was strong, mysterious, and surging with sexual energy. I stared at him, agog. It was as if he was filled with moonlight, as if his whole body carried something cool inside that belonged to the night. What’s more, his eyes were this alarming color, so powerfully dark, while the pupils at their centers were blacker than black. I could feel them swallowing me up, pulling me in, making my flesh creep hungrily towards his.

“Darren,” I said, “oh God, what happened?”

But really, I knew. My brother was a dead man walking.

He kicked the door shut behind him and the noise made me jump. My pulse beat even harder in my head as he started to walk towards me, saying nothing, just watching me intensely, and it seemed for a moment as if he
was
my pulse, as if the thumping inside me was coming from him. I felt stalked, preyed on,
owned
. I longed to give myself to him. I could feel his stare all over me—on my arms, throat, collarbones, and inside my T-shirt where my nipples stiffened, and lower in my knickers where I was so wet that I was ready to be taken. My knees parted of their own accord, aching to reveal my thirsty pussy.

“Helene,” he said, his voice far deeper and richer than it used to be. “Turn off the light.”

Without even thinking, I reached for my bedside lamp, flicked the switch, and plunged the room into darkness.

Darren still glowed. I’m not kidding. And it was as if twice as much power coursed from his body. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and my cunt felt so heavy, so wet with lust that I writhed in my seat, arching towards him. He stepped in close so he stood between my knees, but I didn’t dare reach up and touch, much as I longed to.
He
was the one with the power. And that’s how I wanted it.

“Helene,” he said again, his voice smoldering with depth, as he reached towards me and traced my jaw with his fingertips. It was like being touched by desirous static—where the pads of his fingers touched my skin, electricity thrummed, painful but beautifully exciting. I gasped, stung, trembling from the energy and parted my thighs even more, my lust strengthening by the second. I’d never felt this kind of hunger. It was all consuming. Controlled by my desire, tortured by it, I made to thrust my hand between my legs.

“Stop,” he told me, his voice strong and sure. “Don’t.” And just like that, I was frozen, unable to touch my aching clit, unable to sate my hankering self.

He had me in his thrall.

His stare burned on my skin and it felt like fingers touching me—like actual, physical fingers. When he stared down at my left breast through my T-shirt, I felt as if his hand was cupping the flesh, pressing against my stiff nipple. When he gazed down at my thighs, it felt like his lips were brushing against the skin. “Respond,” he said, his eyes pulsing as he glared down at me, and suddenly I could move again. I groaned out loud, arching towards him, begging him to touch me, to touch me right now.

“Please, Darren!” I gasped. “Oh God, touch my clit.” Yes, that’s what I said to my brother—not,
Oh my God, they’ve killed you and you’re now possessed by darkness
, but
Do things to me that a brother never should.