Death Will Be Sweet

By Jennifer Aarons

ean Clarke is a dandy of a vampire who has just been dumped by his Maker after five hundred years of gallivanting the globe together. In Edwardian London, he finds himself wanting to do a bit of shagging in an attempt to soothe broken heart. He soon finds himself smitten by a young socialite, Hannah Dorchester. However, Hannah is different than any other creature with whom Sean has associated. Will he survive their trysts?

All proceeds from the sales of Coming Together: Neat titles benefit Kiva. See http://www.eroticanthology.com/neat.htm for details.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coming Together
• Release date: Dec 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311293527

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Death Will Be Sweet © 2013 by Jennifer Aarons

Cover art © 2013 by Alessia Brio

All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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About Coming Together: Neat

Coming Together: Neat is a line of novella-length (10K-50K word) titles. As with all Coming Together publications, diversity is the keyword. Thus, all colors and flavors of erotic fiction are considered.

All proceeds from the sales of Coming Together: Neat titles are placed in a microlending account at Kiva (kiva.org), where they are then used to help entrepreneurs in 3rd world countries launch or expand their businesses.

The contributing authors are encouraged to manage the microlending of their proceeds by joining Neat's Kiva lending team.

For more information, visit:

http://www.eroticanthology.com/neat.htm

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Death Will Be Sweet

Part One:

Sean Clarke.

May 1 1910. (Sunday Evening)

I am guilty. I strayed from the bedroom. All men need a little variety to spice it up a bit. It does not mean anything more than adding some flavor, having a little pie instead of ice cream for dessert. And yet women always take it to mean something more. Shagging is the easy part. A good fuck I can deliver. I am the Don Juan of my kind. I am the detached male, you know the type, the type that can fuck and say, Thank you very much. That was lovely, but I'm not looking for anything more, only to bend you over, and give you a good poke.

Love is the hard part; it is not easy finding it, and keeping it is harder still. Love is a wretched beast; it is misery, masked as sentimental postures, and heartbreak. It tears at one's soul; eats away at one's being. Love jolts one into a state that is a most unpleasant feeling, which I equate to being eaten alive by pesky red ants. This despair is enormous and more powerful than I ever thought it could be.

Is this the state of true sorrow? If so, then I now know the meaning of loss, definitive loss; hot and bloody tears spill from me, connecting me with the very base of myself. It is an incredible tension, a sorrow that strangles me, as well as suffocates me. Yes, I like to dwell for the moment in this place of sorrow. I am no poet, but I have commiserated with many; of course, I played the part of the lover. I am a good actor.

I am a beast. I pray every night to be taken out of myself—to find my other, and yet my other was she, who penetrated my soul, who left me to wallow in my otherness. This place I despise. It is a place that causes me great noisome, like the city to which I have fled.

I have begun to read the love poems of Tennyson. O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! How my great friend Oscar Wilde would laugh at me if he were still alive to laugh. He would tell me to get over myself and move on. No soul is worth the pain that I am inflecting upon myself. There is always another, sometimes around the corner, sometimes in the alleyways; and sometimes this other will appear out of nowhere.

He died alone because his lover abandoned him at his last hour. I sat with him until his last breath; reminding him that it was his own folly that had caused his death. He cried and laughed at the same time, asking me once again to make him what I am. I stroked his forehead, remembering our lovemaking. Remembering how he would drop to his knees as we walked down a darken alleyway from some party in Mayfair, pushing me up against the hard brick wall. I pretending to fight him off, knowing what game he was going to play.

He would take his top hat off, as if to bow to me, looking up at me, and with his walking-stick still in his right hand he would lightly tap at my buttons, and say in his very well-schooled voice, unbutton please, and I would obey, as he swept up his cape to mask his performance, and such a terrific act of fellatio he performed on old Jack, causing me to buckle at the knees, making me lean into him, grabbing him by the back of his neck, pressing my whole self into him until I heard his mourns of pleasure as I released my seed into his lovely mouth.

At that moment I loved him, and would have made him one of mine, but she, the one who made me, forbade it. I curse her to this day for taking this love from me. Her chilly reply was that I always fell in love when I spilt my seed. How many mouths, how many twats, how many hands have felt your seed, she asked, slapping me, cursing me, and telling me that I was no better than the whore on the street corner with her lips painted red and her face roughed up.

I should have left her after she said that to me. Instead, I watched him die and wept blood tears upon his neck as I gave him the kiss of death. Now ten years later, I still feel him with me. I took his dying blood. I became a part of him and she even said that after his death I became more sentimental, and intolerable to live with. His last words ring in my head—Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.

She abandoned me in Paris. She had one of her fits, stormed out of our bedroom, and fled in the night in her splendid dress of turquoise velvet when she discovered I had my way with the French maid. Typical, I know. I begged her forgiveness, my blood tears staining my white shirt. Thankfully, I had taken off my grey swallow-tailed jacket, and laid it over the armchair. I was still wearing my grey hat. She had laughed at me, calling me a buffoon, saying only a dandy would have a white gardenia in his buttonhole. I gazed at her piquant oval face perched upon a long slender neck, her enormous blue eyes, questioning me. I thought of Oscar; he would have been very pleased with my attire.

How could you? she whispered. I have given you everything.

What had she really given me? I was the devotee. I was the one who served her. I followed her. I lived where she wanted to live. And, yes, I strayed from the bedroom once or twice in my time. Is that such a crime to banish me completely out of her life? She has had many other lovers during our courtship. She paraded them around and in front of me like little circus dogs. Tennyson's words come to me once again, and I hear Oscar chuckle as I recite them: Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers. Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

I stayed in Paris for a few more days. I wandered around in a fog. I was entranced by something deep within as I walked the rectilinear boulevards seeking nocturnal thrills only to find myself weeping at the steps of Montmartre, and hearing her in my head, You broke my heart? How so, I wanted to ask? How could I have broken your heart when all I was doing was poking at a chambermaid for a bit of fun? And to think that very morning she had denied me the act I so required. What had