Blood Lust: Blood Lust, #1

By Olive Spencer

There are a few misconceptions about vampires I'd like to clear up. No, we don't sparkle in the sun. We don't turn into bats to fly through the night. We don't all look as good as Wesley Snipes in black leather. I'm not related to Dracula. When I tell people I'm a vampire, I get one of two reactions. One - pure, abject horror. Two - an all-consuming morbid curiosity. Those who recoil think I'm joking, that I have some sort of mental deficit, and they're in the presence of a crazy person. They offer to pray for me, they make the sign of the cross, and they splash vodka sodas in my face. Those are the type of people I like to avoid. You can only ruin so many nice jackets before you take the hint...

 

I wasn't always a vampire - twenty years ago, I was a normal 25 year old kid named Bryce. All of that changed when Camilla came into my life. One night of passion changed my world, and when I woke up covered in blood and wholly transformed, life as I knew it was over. Bryce was dead, and I was given new life. Camilla vanished, and for twenty long years, I never saw her again. When Camilla reappears in the small town I now call home and makes me an offer I can't refuse, it's all I can do not to follow her like a lost puppy. Will she be my savior or my downfall? It's nothing personal, it's just blood lust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruthless Publishing
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215284841

Olive Spencer

Olive Spencer writes contemporary (and sometimes paranormal) erotic fiction. Her favorite things are chocolate, bourbon, Diet Coke, and fountain pens, in no particular order.  She loves writing so much, she invested in several cheeky authorish t-shirts (ask about her Tropes shirts!) Her prized possession – a hoodie with the phrase 'Professional Smut Writer'- gets plenty of odd looks in stores, but any publicity is good publicity. When not writing, she's watching hockey and talking smack online, listening to country music, or taking photos with her Papershoot camera. Olive is not a Gemini vegetarian but she is a fan of all things Reese Witherspoon, and she can quote Sweet Home Alabama by heart.

Book preview

Prologue

There are a few misconceptions about vampires I’d like to clear up. No, we don’t sparkle in the sun. We don’t turn into bats to fly through the night. We don’t all look as good as Wesley Snipes in black leather. I’m not related to Dracula.

When I tell people I’m a vampire, I get one of two reactions. One - pure, abject horror. Two - an all-consuming morbid curiosity. Those who recoil think I’m joking, that I have some sort of mental deficit, and they’re in the presence of a crazy person. They offer to pray for me, they make the sign of the cross, and they splash vodka sodas in my face. Those are the type of people I like to avoid. You can only ruin so many nice jackets before you take the hint.

But, the second type, however? The morbid, the macabre, the ones who let curiosity get the better of them? Those are my kind of people. They’re easy to lead. They’re easy to manipulate. They’re easy to feed from. They’re the ones that gladly offer their throats and their bodies, and I’m the kind that greedily gobbles them up. The curious are an all-you-can-eat buffet, and there’s always room for another plate.

When I was alive, I was the second type. When you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. I fucked around and found out in the worst way. They say a sucker is born every minute, and boy, don’t I know it.

Chapter One

I wasn’t always a vampire. I used to be an ordinary kid named Bryce Davis. In 2002, I was a normal twenty-five year old. I went to work, went to school, and came home to my cramped little apartment every night. I’d go to the bar after my night classes, and sometimes if I was lucky, I wouldn’t come home alone. It was on one of those rare occasions I met her. One look from her, and I was a goner. Literally.

The night we met, Camilla was beautiful, charming, and completely intoxicating. She had the foreign air of the old country on her, her voice thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place. Her body had all the curves of a mountain pass, long and winding, the type that could lead a less careful man to his demise. Coming out of nowhere one cold, lonely night, she slid beside me in my usual booth and whispered naughty things in my ear. It set my blood pumping with anticipation.

She didn’t touch her drink, but I paid it no mind. We were busy entertaining each other in other ways. Her hand found its way into my lap, fingers tap dancing over the bulge in my pants. She squeezed my cock and her mouth was on mine, silencing my moan. I stifled my groans with my whiskey while she palmed my cock, giving me an under-the-table handjob for the ages. It wasn’t long before the bar kicked us out. I was horny, and semi-drunk, not wanting it to end. Camilla followed me as I tumbled into the streets, laughing her soft, musical laugh. Her voice filled the night air as we fooled around on the streets, chasing each other like children. We finally caught a cab back to my apartment, and then the fun really began.

I woke up the next morning naked, with a giant headache and a scratchiness in my throat. The night before was fuzzy, coming back in fits and starts as the pain in my limbs began to take hold.