Surrendering:Regent Vampire Lords Novel

By: K.L. Kreig

A Regent Vampire Lords Novel, Book #1



Rough hands gently roam her fevered body as a hot tongue leaves a blaze of fire in its wake. His burning gaze is fierce, but his hands touch her skin with a reverence she’s not experienced. Soft lips and sharp teeth nip down her midsection, pausing only briefly before continuing lower to a place she so desperately needed them to worship. When his tongue pierced her sex, she gasped, her hips bucked but he held her tightly to the mattress, devouring her, driving her higher toward madness.

“Come,” he darkly commanded, and her body obeys as an unexpected climax takes her crashing over the edge into thick, hazy, fog-filled bliss. Forcing her tightly clenched eyes open, she watched in sated fascination as he wraps her hips around his waist and thrusts into her wet, aching sheath, setting off an orgasm as equally intense as the first. Hips thrust, sweat poured and breaths were choppy. Every time was the same…unbridled passion and fervent coupling. Complete and utter perfection.

He plays her with expert precision, wringing another wave of pleasure from her well replete body before finally seeking his own pained release. They lay together, slick bodies quickly cooling as he worships her mouth in the same reverent manner.


A car horn stopped short the words falling from her lover’s lips, evaporating them into the atmosphere like a fine mist.

She blinked her eyes open in both confusion and frustration.

Not again.

Dreams of him always ended like this. Without fail. They had mind-blowing sex so real she could feel her pussy ache when she awoke. But instead of satisfaction, it ached with emptiness. Emptiness she often had to remedy herself or suffer so greatly throughout the day she couldn’t function.

It was the same exact dream, with the same exact ungodly gorgeous man and something always woke her at exactly the same point. He was getting ready to say something profound, but the words never came. She daydreamed constantly on what followed the word “I—”

Perhaps it was “I…want to spend the night,” (only if you cuddle) or, “I…want you on your hands and knees next,” (uh…no need to ask twice) or perhaps even foolishly “I…love you.” (yes, that was foolish, Kate).

She may never know. Maybe she should be content with the erotic dream and the unwelcome feeling of surrendering herself to a man again, even if he wasn’t real. God knows she couldn’t do that when she was awake.

Never again.

She had been naïve. Well…not anymore. Getting your love callously thrown out by guy after guy like a waded up fast food wrapper tended to turn you into a cynical, heartless bitch who would end up in a sad nursing home, old and alone. The nursing staff that drew the short straw would have to take her wing for the day and listen to her pitiful tales of woe. Tales they’d hear until the day she died. The only thing that would keep her company in the years in between life and death would be her twenty-two cats, knitting hats for the homeless and her trusty binoculars, which she’d use to spy on the neighbors.

She’d surrendered her love too easily and too often, but this last time…well, it was like an adage her father always used to say. “Death by a thousand paper cuts.” You can make it through the nine hundred ninety ninth one intact, but that thousandth one, that’s the one that ends you. And John was her thousandth and most regretful paper cut. More like a goddamned ten-inch knife shredding flesh and bone, fatally piercing that small fragile organ held in the center of your chest.

Turning her head, the bright red digital numerals read five fifteen. A.M. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips. She’d gotten approximately three hours of sleep and that would be it. Falling back into her dreams could be a godsend, like tonight, or a curse like most. And although she didn’t need to be at work for five hours yet, she wasn’t willing to take a chance on the torment she might endure should she nod off. Today, of all days, she just could not stomach starting the day badly, waking from the throes of a nightmare which she wouldn’t be able to shake.

Try as she might to fight against it, her thoughts involuntarily drifted to John and the night one year ago today she’d found him with his secretary in his office. She’d been so cliché. Showing up in garters, heels and nothing else sans a tan, tightly belted trench coat. In the good old heart of god’s country, it had been minus twelve degrees that day and she had literally been freezing her tits off under the thin material. The phrase ‘colder than a witch’s tit in January’ surely originated from Wisconsin.

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