And sporting a throbbing erection. The shamemight kill me, but it was more likely I'd have to live as a laughingstock.I thought frantically, trying to...dredge my memory for any clues as towhere I was and how I'd gotten here. The last thing I remembered was...was... Sara undressing.Was I still in Sara's room? I couldn't remember much about it. I'd beentoo busy gazing at her, hoping to lay her, to have noticed the decor.The sheets were satin, and Sara had had satin sheets on her bed, but Icouldn't. The doorbell began to chime.Now who can that be? Diane wondered, rising. I hope it's Mr. Comstock. He doesn't know we'll be leaving yet, and I want the pleasure of telling him what he can do with this under-heated crumbling old place. She went to the door and opened it.Marc Cord stood on the small porch outside. With him was a short, shubby man of about forty, with a bald pate and dark brown eyes. The man was grinning to begin with, and when he saw the lush, full curves of Diane's. Rushing in he gathered her up tenderly and carried her to the bed. Staring at her still face, terror in his chest, he gave a swift command and the bed settled softly on the floor. He set her down carefully, reluctantly letting her slip from his arms. He started to check for any injuries telling himself to disregard her soft alabaster skin and pouting mouth. Yet his body told him he was touching perfection, his green eyes clouded once more with desire. Seeing no obvious injury he told himself to. A searing heat struck his face. His cheeks, mouth, neck, and upper arms and chest-almost bare in the slender cotton vest—were splattered with a surprisingly cold wetness. He felt the burning of the fangs as they sank deep into his cheek. One penetrating the edge of his lower lip with the smooth sharpness of a needle passing through wool.And then he heard the echoes of the gunshot fading away.He opened his eyes. And saw the ichor on himself, on his arms. His left eye was blurred by something.
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