Scanguards Vampires Book #1
A Thank You to my readers: the Scanguards Vampires series sold more than 1 Million copies worldwide!
Vampire bachelor Samson can’t get it up anymore. Not even his shrink can help him. That changes when the lovely mortal auditor Delilah tumbles into his arms after a seemingly random attack. Suddenly there’s nothing wrong with his hydraulics – that is, as long as Delilah is the woman in his arms.
His scruples about taking Delilah to bed vanish when his shrink suggests it’s the only way to cure his problem. Thinking all he needs is one night with her, Samson indulges in a night of pleasure and passion.
However, another attack on Delilah and a dead body later, and Samson has his hands full: not only with trying to hide the fact he’s a vampire, but also with finding out what secrets Delilah harbors for somebody to want her harm.
Copyright © 2010 – 2017 Tina Folsom
“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. He watched her red lips close tightly around him, working him frantically. Up and down, deep and hard, warm and wet.
She cupped his balls, squeezed them in perfect rhythm, her talent evident. He buried his hands in her hair and thrust his hips back and forth, urging her to increase the friction.
His request was met eagerly, her slurping sounds bouncing off the walls of the dimly lit room.
Samson 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 undoubtedly swallow too. Something he particularly appreciated. But despite her tantalizing tongue running up and down his cock, despite the hard sucking motion, despite her enthusiasm, no erection was forthcoming. Her patience was wasted on him. Nothing stirred.
Her head bobbed back and forth, her long brown hair brushed against his naked skin, catching in his pubic hair, yet his body didn’t react, as if she were blowing somebody else, and he was merely watching tired old porn.
Samson finally pushed her away, humiliated, frustrated, unsatisfied. 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.
Hastily, he shoved his useless male equipment back into his pants. Even quicker, he zipped up. In vampire speed, he fled her company.
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.”
His old friend couldn’t possibly be serious. “A shrink? You want me to go see a shrink?”
“He’s helped me 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.
“And don’t judge him from the outside.”
The shrink’s place was the bad punchline of an even worse 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 enormous 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,” she invited him, eyelashes fluttering, head tilting a fraction to draw his gaze to her neck, hinting at the fact that she would welcome his bite. A bite she would grant him during sex. A bite he’d have to deny her, not because she was a vampire, but because she wasn’t his type. Yeah, so not his type.
Once he was inside 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 longue.
The guy had to be a lunatic. No self-respecting modern vamp wanted 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 offered his hand in greeting.
“If you think I’m going to lie down in the coffin, think again,” Samson barked.
“I see we have our work cut out for us.” Unfazed by the rude remark, the doctor pointed to the comfortable looking armchair.
Reluctantly, Samson sat down.
Dr. Drake let himself fall in the chair opposite. He wasn’t saying a word. No muscle twitched in his face. No limb moved. He wasn’t doing anything—anything other than staring. Uncomfortable under the shrink’s scrutiny, Samson clamped his hands over the armrests of the chair. His shoulders stiffened, his throat tightened, blood pumped feverishly through his veins, making them swell like an overinflated helium balloon about to explode.
“Can we get started? I believe I’m paying you by the hour.” Better grab the vamp by the fangs.
Dr. Drake’s smile was noncommittal, his demeanor unwavering, when he said evenly, “We started the minute you entered, but then I’m sure you knew that.”
The implied reprimand stung. “Indeed.”
“How long have you experienced these anger issues?”
He hadn’t expected the question. It was like a punch coming from an innocent old lady—unexpected, unprovoked, and out of place. A direct assault on his already battered psyche.
“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 employing when the situation demanded it.
“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 knew that some vampires had gifts. A photographic memory like his own, sensing emotions or memories like some of his friends. But were those talents widespread or just outliers?
“You read minds?”
Drake shook his head. “No. But your problem isn’t 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—”
“Of course not,” Samson interrupted. The quack would charge him however much he thought he could milk him for.
“Yet 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 Miss Hampstead—”
“I’m not here to talk about her,” Samson snapped.
Under no circumstances would he utter her name. She had no part in his life, not anymore, and the mere mention of her made his fangs itch for a vicious bite. He cracked his knuckles and wondered if it would sound like this if her neck snapped.
“No, you didn’t come to talk about her. Yet it’s all about her, isn’t it? There can only be one cause for all this. We both know what it is. So, the question is: are you going to trust me to help you?”
Samson decided to stick with denial. It had worked so far. “Help me with what?”
“Getting over the anger.”
“I told you, it’s not an anger issue.”
“Oh, I believe it is. Whatever she did, whatever she said, it angered you so much that it’s putting a block on your sexual drive. As if you wanted to avoid one thing.”
“To allow yourself to be vulnerable.”
“I’m not vulnerable. Never was. Not since I became a vampire.” Being vulnerable meant being weak.
“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.”
Again, the shrink gave him a practiced stare.
No, he couldn’t allow Drake to get this close. Emotions were dangerous. They could destroy a man, strip him bare, expose him.
Samson hauled himself out of the chair. “This won’t work.”
“Ever since we’ve started mainstreaming,” Drake continued, undeterred, and rose from his chair, “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. “Send me your bill. Good bye.”
He stormed out.
Well, sex was overrated anyway. He just had to convince himself of it. Some nights he believed his own lies, but only some nights. The truth was, he liked having sex, sweaty and passionate and wild sex. But none of the vampire women could get him excited anymore. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a hard-on.
He’d never heard of such a thing happening to a vampire. Sexual virility was as much part of being a vampire as the thirst for blood or the fear of the sun. Only humans became impotent. If the news got out, he would lose all respect from his peers. And thus lose his power, his influence, his clout.
And that prospect scared him more than anything, so much so that he’d conceded and gone back to the dungeon, the shrink, and his Barbie doll receptionist.
Samson blinked away the memories of the past nine months.
He strode to the wet bar at the opposite end of his elegant sitting room and poured himself a glass of his favorite blood type. He 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.
Unmet need made him wish he could get drunk to forget his troubles, but alcohol had no effect on a vampire’s body. What he’d give for a little numbness right now. But he was as sharp as always—despite the fact that he was turning two hundred thirty-seven tonight. And as long as he wasn’t staked to death, he would remain exactly as he was now: young, healthy… impotent.
The clangor of the phone tore through the quiet of his home. Samson looked at the clock on the wall. Shortly before nine o’clock. For a brief moment he contemplated not answering, but habit made him reach for the receiver.
“Hey, birthday boy. How is it hanging?”
Bad choice of words.
“I just want to wish you a happy birthday and see what you’re doing tonight.”
Why Ricky had to keep up the pretense, Samson really didn’t know. Wasn’t he aware that he was about as talented at pulling off a deception as a nun was at doing a lap dance?
“When’s everybody coming?” Samson asked, not in the mood for games.
“What do you mean?” An innocent tone wasn’t Ricky’s strong suit either.
“What time are you guys going to surprise me with a birthday party?” After all they’d done exactly the same the previous year.
“How did you know? Never mind. The guys wanted me to make sure you were there. So don’t leave the house. And if our other surprise arrives before us, keep her there.”
Her? Well, wasn’t that just perfect?
“When will you guys ever learn that I’m not into strippers?”
Never have been, never will be.
Ricky laughed. “Never mind that. This one’s special. She’s not just a stripper. She does extras.”
The last word made Samson’s eyebrows rise, but not his cock.
“I think she’ll do something for you, you know what I mean. She’s good, so give her a chance, will you? It’s for your own good. You can’t continue like this. Holly said—”
“Holly? You fucking told Holly? Are you nuts? She’s the biggest gossip of the underworld! I told you in confidence. How could you?”
Samson felt his fangs descend, an automatic reaction he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to stop. Any human seeing the sharp tips of his canines protrude from his mouth would run for his life. But Ricky wasn’t human, nor was he easily scared.
“Careful how you talk about my girlfriend, Samson. She’s not a gossip. And besides, she suggested that stripper. She’s a friend of Holly’s.”
Well, in that case! Perfect! A friend of Holly’s. Sure, this was guaranteed to work! Why hadn’t his friends thought of this earlier?
“Call her off!”
“Sorry, too late. See ya.”
Before Samson could unleash the acid words sitting on his lips, Ricky had already disconnected the call.
The receiver in his hand, he felt helpless, powerless, pathetic.
Great! Now that Holly knew about his little problem, soon the entire underworld of San Francisco would know. He’d be the laughing stock of every party, the butt of every vampire joke.
How long would it take her to spread the news—a day, an hour, five minutes? How long until the snickering behind his back started? How long until everybody and their pet bat knew?
Why not take out a one-page ad in the SF Vampire Chronicle himself to save her the trouble?
Samson Woodford, debonair bachelor vampire, can’t get it up!