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gravedigger_exlargeThis time the Sunday Snog is of a vampiric nature, but it makes me wriggle in all the right ways just the same. Enjoy another excerpt from the gothic vampire western story “Gravedigger.”

Summary: Ivory, a Wild West whore of renown and an unrepentant vampire, has tried without success to create herself a mate. Obviously, something’s gone terribly wrong, and she suspects the interference of the pious gravedigger.

Fletch Conroy has been trained all his life to fight the forces of darkness through ritual and consecration. But after a rash of mysterious slasher deaths, Fletch decides it’s time for him to start hunting for the vampire responsible.

What he finds turns out to be more than he bargained for. And Ivory intends to take full advantage of that fact to show Fletch she’s not the monster he expects.


His blood pumped fast and fragrant through his veins from their fight and from his fear. She wanted to know whether his erection had flagged, but there was plenty of time to rekindle his arousal if it had.

Fletch rocked his chest on the table to wrench out from under her hand, but she insisted that he stay. She wished she could take her time the way she usually did, inspecting the full length, width and breadth of his body, tasting the flesh before garnishing her feast with his blood. As long as Fletch would fight her out of ignorance, she didn’t have that luxury.

“No…don’t…” Fletch muttered, muffled by his mouth against the table.

“Shhh…it only hurts for a second. I’ll only be feeding,” Ivory reassured him. She brushed his hair away from his neck and softly stroked the tender, pulsing stretch of skin. “I won’t kill you. Yet. You’ll be no weaker than you’ve left me.”

The stake had been the worst of his weapons, but since a stake in the chest would effectively halt most living creatures, Ivory didn’t feel too embarrassed by how weak it had made her. The burns were superficial. They hurt, but they didn’t impede her or dampen her determination like Fletch had thought they would. Fletch thought these spells were holy. He didn’t realize how far back the symbols and potions and rituals went, in their various incarnations.

Ivory breathed deeply from the bouquet of his veins and poised her fangs once again. His blood would repair the damage of his conviction. He needed to know that his blood would restore her, and she didn’t have to kill him for that, nor for sustenance.

She was no killer.

Ivory sank her fangs into his neck, so slowly, savoring the moment, because she’d already tasted his blood and it promised to be a rich affair indeed. She also wanted to be aware the moment the pain ceased and he succumbed to the pleasure of her bite.

The blood flowed in thin rivulets over her tongue. Fletch stopped thrashing and his body went slack beneath hers. She felt her way to Fletch’s eyelids to make sure he was still awake and hadn’t fallen into unconsciousness out of pain or terror. His mouth moved under her palm. She shifted the use of her hand from exploration to encouragement, stroking his jaw and his lips, then teasing just past his lips. He took two of her fingers into his mouth willingly, pressing the velvet flat of his tongue against the pads.

She sheathed her fangs fully inside him, so deeply her human teeth broke the skin as well. Fletch writhed beneath her, but this time it was not to escape. They both moaned when she pushed all the way in. His moan vibrated all the way up her arm from where he sucked on her fingers. She fancied he experienced her moan throughout his body and into his heart itself.

His blood came to her in streams now. She hadn’t punctured anything fatal—she stayed away from the jugular and the carotid unless she truly wanted to kill a person. Just enough to take in the meaty, savory liquid, thick and dense with life.