There's a misconception that vampires are not in control of themselves, that the sight or smell of blood will trigger an uncontrollable lust and violence in us. That's about as true as it is that a man can't control his sex drive. He may want it, he may beg for it, but he can be a gentleman.

Which, interestingly, is how I came to be in these circumstances...

Each moment presents itself as a choice, as now with Beth. When I think too much, about how I first came to know her as an abducted 6-year old who hugged my neck for safety, my mind can't reconcile it with her dangerous kisses on the parking garage. I can't think just now, though. Beth has seen to that.

I can feel my body react as a man and a vampire to this third Beth in front of me, strung out on vampire blood. I'm keenly interested in this new Beth; rationally, I didn't think she had it in her to try BC, and irrationally, every one of my senses screams that she wants me. But as my arousal increases I can only wonder if I want her like this, a messy strung-out fuck in my shower.

Somehow I had always imagined her in a pink cardigan, blushing as I gave her a single white rose. Oh, and wine--we'd both have wine. A pink cardigan and a naughty black lace bra. And just like that, my fifties fantasy dissolves into the new-millennium hormone fest raging before me.

She's stopped begging me to turn her, and I can face her again. My nose presses to the perfect skin of her neck, nostrils flaring as I inhale deeply. The putrid scent of my own kind ebbs just below the surface, and it's a blessed comfort to be repulsed by her blood just now. I raise my head to look at her face, allowing my lips the pleasure of brushing over that skin. She's crying now, caving into my arms. Her high is crashing, and no-one enjoys that free-fall.

"Just make it go away," she whispers.

"Shh," I say, letting the words echo in my chest. My hands find that porcelain neck and feel the rapid, frantic pulse on either side. I've picked up a few tricks in the decades I've been around, and my fingers press firmly into her throat. Within seconds, she has passed out, and with any luck, she'll sleep through the rest of the crash.

I feel a lump in my throat as I consider which is harder: choking Beth out or stripping Beth down. I feel a lump in my pants and rule in favor of the latter. Carefully, I peel her matted dress off her cold frame, trying desperately to ignore the miles of leg and torso broken up by lacy mounds of ass and tits, and as quickly as I can manage it, she's engulfed in the biggest, fluffiest towel I own. One shirt later (and far too many buttons for a man to bear), she's sleeping on my couch while I go tend to my own needs with a hand and a pouch of blood.

It's the change in her body temperature that tells me Beth is waking up, and I've scraped together a bit of coffee for her. A mug of this would do nothing for me, but talk to me after about five pots. Vamps can feel caffeine, just as they can feel alcohol or any other altering chemical; it just takes a helluva lot more.

Beth's eyes crack open and I can't help but think despite the smudged kohl and knotted hair that she really would look beautiful in that cardigan right now. And that bra...I spin the mug so the handle points at her and sit back reluctantly. God damn the gentleman vampire.