Samson's Lovely Mortal (reading sample) by Tina Folsom (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📖

“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 while he watched her red lips close tightly around him, working 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 reclining 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.
“Uh-huh.” The doctor nodded as if he knew something Samson didn’t. “You think it’s a sexual problem. Interesting.”
Was the man a mind reader? Samson was aware that some vampires had additional gifts. He himself had a photographic memory. He knew that others of his kind could see the future or read minds, but he wasn’t sure how widespread those talents were.
He needed to know whether he was at a disadvantage with this man. He didn’t want to work with somebody who could read him like a book when he didn’t want to be read. “Do you read minds?”
Drake shook his head. “No. But your problem is not uncommon. It’s pretty easy to figure out. You exhibit signs of extreme anger and frustration.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward in emphasis. “Mr. Woodford, I’m well aware of who you are. You run one of the most successful companies in the vampire world, if not the most successful. You are rich beyond belief—and trust me this will not influence how much I’ll charge you—”
“Of course not,” Samson interrupted. The quack would charge him what he thought Samson was willing to pay. It wouldn’t be a first. He was used to people trying to inflate their prices because they knew he could afford it. But they usually tried only once. Nobody cheated him and got away with it.
“And at the same time, you haven’t been seen in society for quite a while, when you should be out there, courting beautiful women. I suppose your breakup with Ilona Hampstead had something to do with this.”
“I’m not here to talk about her.” Samson let out a quick breath. He refused to even say her name. She had no part in his life, not anymore, and the mere mention of her name made his fangs itch for a vicious bite. He cracked his knuckles, and wondered if that was the same sound he’d hear if her neck snapped. It would be music to his ears.
“Perhaps not about her, but maybe about what she did. There can only be one reason for this. And we both know what it is. So, the question is now: are you going to trust me to help you?”
Drake’s blue eyes punctuated his point.
“Do what?” Samson decided to stick with denial. It had worked so far.
“Get over the anger.” The doctor was as insistent as Samson was stubborn.
“I told you, it’s not an anger issue.”
A knowing smile curved the doctor’s lips. “Oh, I believe it is. Whatever she did, it angered you so much that it’s putting a block on your sexual drive, as if you didn’t want to make yourself vulnerable again.”
“I’m not vulnerable. I never was. Not since I’ve been a vampire.” The last thing Samson wanted to feel was being vulnerable. To him it was synonymous to being weak. If the doctor wasn’t careful with his accusations, he’d soon find himself at the receiving end of Samson’s displeasure. Maybe a physical fight would relieve his frustrations.
“Not in the physical sense of the word. We’re all aware of your strength and your power. But I’m talking about your emotions. We all have them. We all struggle with them. Some more than others. Believe me, my calendar is booked solid with our fellow vampires who need help dealing with their emotions.”
The shrink looked at him. No, he couldn’t allow Drake to get this close. Emotions were a dangerous thing. They could destroy a man. Samson hauled himself out of the chair.
“I don’t think this is going to work.” The tightness in his chest bore witness to the effect Drake’s words had on him, even though he wasn’t ready to admit it. Not even to himself.
The doctor stood. “Ever since we’ve started mainstreaming,” Drake continued, undeterred, “my practice has quadrupled. Adapting to the way humans live their lives has taken a toll on many of us. We now have to deal with emotional issues we kept buried for centuries. Literally. You’re not alone. I can help you.”
Samson shook his head. Nobody could help him. He had to get through this on his own. “Send me your bill. Good bye, Doc.”
He stormed out, knowing the doctor had hit a nerve.
Well, sex was overrated anyway. At least, it was what he was trying to convince himself of. There were nights when he believed his own lies, but it never lasted long. The truth was, he liked having sex—lots of it—but none of the sexy vampire women did it for him anymore. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get an erection.
He’d never heard of such a thing happening to any vampire. Sexual virility was part and parcel of being a vamp in the first place. Being impotent was a foreign concept in the vampire world. Only humans became impotent. If the news became widespread, he would lose all respect from his peers. It was unacceptable.
So eventually he’d conceded, and a month later, he’d made another appointment in the hope there was something the quack could do for him.
Samson blinked and wiped away the memories of the last nine months. Tonight was his birthday. He would try to have some fun.
As he strode from his wingback armchair to the wet bar at the opposite end of his elegant sitting room; his movements were fluid, his body tall and muscular, yet slender.
Samson poured himself a glass of his favorite blood type and downed it like a human would a shot of Tequila—minus the salt and lime. The thick liquid coated his throat and eased the thirst, dulling his hunger for other pleasures in the process. Good; no other pleasures would be satisfied tonight.
Same as the last two hundred and seventy-six nights.
Not that he was counting.
Only his thirst for blood had been stilled, the rest of his body’s needs, while temporarily subdued, would go unmet. Sometimes he wished he could get drunk and forget about everything, but unfortunately, being a vampire meant he couldn’t get drunk like humans did. Alcohol had no effect on his body. What he’d give for a little numbness right now.
He had expressly told his pals not to get him any presents or throw him a party. Of course he knew it was futile and only a matter of time until they would be at his door. Like pilfering barbarians, they would invade his home, raid his secret stash of quality drinks—consisting mostly of high-priced O-Neg—and waste his waking hours with old stories he’d heard a hundred times.
They’d given him a surprise birthday party when he’d reached the two-hundred mark, and it would be no different today, on his two hundred and thirty-seventh, with pretty much the