It had been one hell of a day. More than ever, Martin needed the olive cure. The place wasn't important, as long as it offered the comfort of a crowd without the distraction of friends. Somewhere to drink and think.

The dungeon boasting a liquor license promised that anonymity he had sought only twice before in his life: last year when his wife Connie divorced him and last week when Traci, his most recent lover, terminated their relationship. He winced at the memory of the latter.

"It's over, Marty. I don't think we should see each other any more if our relationship can't grow into something more meaningful."

Martin wondered what brought this on. He had been straight with Traci from the start.

She was a blonde beauty from the secretarial pool who had gone out of her way to congratulate Marty on his nomination for promotion. Having seniority over Grant Billings, the other nominee, office rumor had it Martin couldn't lose.

At first, Traci's wide, innocent eyes peeking out from beneath a golden mop of unruly curls did little to interest him. But she either didn't notice or didn't care. With increasing frequency, he kept running into her at the coffee machine, near the executive lounge, in the cafeteria, in the elevator before and after work. He knew it wasn't coincidence.

The more he saw her, the more he realized how sexy she was. The way she flaunted her shapely legs, tight little derriere, and abundant chest left little doubt in his mind she knew how to please a man. Even her tousled hair suggested she had just gotten out of bed, but she had not necessarily been sleeping.

So Martin asked her out. Over cocktails she brought up the subject of marriage and why she would never consider it. "Why settle down when there's so much to experience?" she said. "Life's short, as they say. I want to have all the fun I can before my number's up."

Sounded good to Martin. Of course he thought it was her youth talking, and that in time she would change her mind. Not that he wanted her to consider him a prospect. He told her he wasn't ready to settle down again. With an ex taking a hefty chunk out of his paychecks every month, the last thing he wanted was another wife.

They'd been together for about three weeks when she floored him with the "Dear Martin" lecture. Face-to-face in his office, she told him good-bye. He would have preferred a letter. Certainly a phone call would have been less painful. It surprised him how much it had hurt at the time.

For an entire week he agonized over whether or not to call her and suggest they begin a meaningful relationship. Today he was going make that call... until he saw Traci walking arm-in-arm with Billings. Through the grape vine he heard Traci and Billings had been seeing each other for at least a week.

Minutes later he learned Billings had received the promotion. Martin wanted to scream. He had counted on being named head of his department. Now Billings, with his youth and energy, was his superior. His humiliation was complete.

Analyzing the time frame, Martin determined the bitch found out, long before it became public knowledge, that he wasn't going to get the promotion after all. Damn it. He didn't mind some office bimbo using him for sex, but he sure as hell didn't like her using him to further her own career.

Ordering a martini, he couldn't decide what made him madder, Traci's rejection or losing the promotion. He sucked on the olive while he mulled it over.

Billings wasn't a bad guy, he decided. He was a hard worker, an asset to the company. He got that promotion today because he deserved it, not because he screwed Martin out of it.

Where Traci was concerned, he'd have a talk with Billings, set him straight on that girl's motives for dating a guy.

For a long time, Martin stared into his glass. They should put two olives in these, he thought. One was never enough. At least that was the reason he gave himself for ordering a second drink. For the olive. Life was a lot like a martini, never enough olives.

He bit through the little green ball, all the way to the red pimento core and savored its pungent taste. Like an elixir, he felt the gin-soaked fruit working its magic, healing his wounds. But they were deep. To mend completely, he knew he had to purge Traci from his mind. What he needed was a diversion.

As if on cue, the bartender placed a third martini in front of him.

"Hey, I didn't order this."

"Compliments of the lady." The bartender nodded his head toward the table against the wall behind Martin.

Puzzled, he turned around to convey his thanks. Red hair, dark, the kind that said, "there's a fire smoldering inside of me," flowed over gorgeous white shoulders. Porcelain skin, full, wanting lips, and a pair of eyes that smiled with carnal knowledge sent his heart on a marathon. She wasn't real, that was his impression. How could anything so beautiful be real?

She stared at him. No nod. No hint of acknowledgment. She just stared.

Young, probably in her early twenties, he judged, but far from innocent. She was the perfect diversion. He drained his drink and picked up the fresh one.

Play it cool, like ice, he reminded himself as he approached her table. She wants something. Whatever it is, make her work for it. Even as he thought this, he felt his will melting.

He set his drink down on the table and slid into the chair opposite her. She continued to stare. God, he'd do anything to have her. Beg, if she wanted.

"Buy you a drink?" What a corny line. He licked his lips, took a sip of his martini and felt himself weightless as he fell into her sapphire eyes.

"I've been watching you." At last she spoke. He couldn't place the accent, except it was as sensuous as the rest of her. French? Greek? No, she was too pale to be Greek. German, maybe.

"Do I know you?" That's right, Marty-boy. Keep dishing up the come-ons of a first class jerk and she'll walk.

"You seek satisfaction in your life."

"Don't we all?"

"I can help you." It was the first time she smiled. Not much, just enough to raise the corners of her mouth.

He wanted to rip his clothes off and scream, I'm all yours. Then a dumb thought struck him. "How much?"

The sapphires grew cold. "Perhaps I was wrong, I can't help you."

"What do you mean?"

"You misunderstand. I'm not one of them." She motioned with her eyes towards the girls in mini skirts and spiked heels at the bar.

"Who are you then?"

She put a cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply as the flame from her lighter danced at the tobacco's tip. She brought her eyes slowly back to him. Through a cloud of smoke she said, "Nobody, really."

"And why would you want to help me?"

"Because you have something I want."

"But it's not money?" Jesus, he hated playing 20 questions.

She shook her head. The cascade of red shimmered in the light.

"What then?"

"You." She paused, as if trying to determine how much to confess, then added, "Your blood. Not all of it, just a pint, more or less."

"Let me guess. You're from the Red Cross."

She displayed the patience of a cat as she waited for him to finish laughing at his weak joke and guess again.

"What, you're a vampire?" In reply, that shadow of a smile returned to her lips. The notion seemed ridiculous. But it did arouse his curiosity. This lady was obviously deranged or into kink. Either way, it could prove to be an interesting evening.

He decided to humor her. "Okay. Allow me to apologize and start over. I'm Martin Dresden."

She did not return the introduction. Instead, she stood and walked to the door, her ass swinging to the rhythm of his heart. At the door she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes beckoned him to follow.

* * *

The hotel suite was lavishly furnished with a white sofa facing a gas fireplace next to a brass-trimmed bar on the left, a bedroom on the right, and a terrace beyond a set of sliding glass doors straight ahead.

She walked into the bedroom. He started to follow, but she told him to fix a drink, she wouldn't be long and closed the door, shutting out his view of her.

He stopped stirring a pitcher of martinis when she returned a few minutes later wearing a sheer white, floor-length peignoir with nothing underneath. High, firm breasts pointed straight at him. The pale pink nipples were already excited, hard. His eyes trailed the inward curve of her waist, down over her hips, across her flat, smooth belly. Her skin was so white it seemed iridescent, ghostly. Then he noticed the dark red curls of her mound glistening with moisture. It made his center spring to attention.

One by one she dimmed the lights while he poured two drinks. At the fireplace she spread her robe behind her as she knelt on the hearth. Within seconds flames licked and teased the logs on the grate.

Martin's mouth went dry. He wanted to lick and tease her. Drinks in hand, he moved to the hearth. She took both glasses and set them down, untasted, next to the fireplace. Her bejeweled eyes, sparkling in the firelight, fell to his bulge, inches from her face. Slowly she leaned forward until her head rested against him.

He cupped his hand behind her head, his fingers gently massaging her hair. He felt her hot breath through his trousers. Pleasure swelled within him until he thought he would burst.

His fingers tightened their grasp on her hair and he pulled her head back. Her luscious mouth open, he could see her tongue flick impatiently across her teeth. He was relieved to see them appear normal. He bent to kiss her and her fingers flew to his shirt, pulling each button free until his chest was as exposed as hers.

Martin sank to his knees and pulled her to him. He felt her bare skin against his. Her breasts, crushed to his chest, pushed into soft swells at her sides. His hands lightly caressed the swells before moving to explore the small of her back. Lower, his hands massaged her buttocks. The way her hips widened into the rounded flesh reminded him of an inverted heart, a living valentine. He pictured Cupid shooting little arrows into it. Then he pictured shooting his own arrow into her, making her moan in pain, wriggle in pleasure.

He nuzzled her ear lobe, her neck. The slightly salty taste of her skin made him hunger for more. Across her shoulder, down to her breast, his tongue explored. She moaned softly as he rolled her nipple between his teeth.

Her hands undid his belt, unzipped his pants to release him. He was hard and ready. He shuddered as her fingers lightly stroked his shaft, circled the purple head. A bead of cream escaped from the tip. Her finger captured it, brought it to her lips.

Eager for more, she gently shoved him back onto his elbows for a better angle. He complied, raising his hips to meet her. He gasped as she swallowed him whole. Her tongue, wrapped around his rod, slowly unwound as she pulled her mouth away. As the tip slipped past her teeth, she reversed and plunged again, sliding him even further down her throat. Each time she repeated the motions he thought he would explode.

She brought him to the edge of ecstasy and stopped. She pulled his legs free of their clothing shackles and repositioned him for her own pleasure.

Straddling his head, she allowed him to taste her juices, his tongue to explore the soft, pink folds of her garden. Deeper he probed, gorging himself on her fruit. Slowly her hips gyrated to music only she could hear. As his mouth worked its magic, his finger found her primal spot. She quivered with delight. Her grinding picked up speed with each breath. He felt her muscles tighten, readying for the ultimate release.

In those final moments she refused to give in and pulled away. Covering his mouth with hers, their tongues intertwined. She lowered herself onto him, burying his center deep inside of her. Her lips moved to an earlobe which she suckled as her body became an ocean of waves, rising and falling on his shore. As their momentum increased, her tongue traced delicate patterns on his neck.

The pressure in him had built to a point he had never imagined possible. At the height of his rapture, the sensation of needles piercing his throat sent the power surging through every cell of his body. Together they erupted, greedily absorbing each other's aftershocks until both were sated. For what seemed like hours, every shudder that passed through one into the other extended their stay in paradise.

At last she rose. Through a dream-like fog he saw her lick a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. He touched the bruised spot on his neck, then checked his fingers. They glistened, wet and red. Nervously, he looked to her for an explanation. Through the dim firelight he noticed her grin expose fangs that quickly receded into smooth, even teeth.

"Do not worry," she said. He tried to focus as he watched her blurred figure glide into the bedroom. She returned seconds later with a folded square of tissues which she pressed to his wound. With her other hand she guided his fingers to the make-shift bandage. "Keep the pressure on for a few minutes. The bleeding will stop sooner."

"Will I die?" He asked out of curiosity. Actually, he was too content to care. If she wanted, she could suck all the life out of him right now and he'd die a happy man.

"Of course not. You will be fine." She disappeared again into the other room. He had no idea how much time had passed, but when she returned, she was fully dressed.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. It's almost daylight." She bent to kiss him good-bye.

"No!" He was shocked at the panic in his voice. This strange, exotic woman had triggered a basic instinct within him. He needed her like he needed air, food, and water. His fear of losing her was overwhelming. He struggled to rise, but did not have the strength.

"Do not excite yourself." Her hand, resting on his shoulder, gently commanded him back down.

"Will I see you again?"

"Yes. I would like that."

"Where, when?"

"I'll find you. When the time is right."

Why, he didn't know, but, Martin found comfort in those words. Exhausted, he slumped against the sofa. It would take hours for him to recover, maybe even days. That's okay. She was worth it. Still, there was one thing he had to know. "You never told me your name."

He drifted into unconsciousness with his own laughter echoing in his ears at the last word she said.

"Olivia."

About the Author:

Catherine Cady is the pseudonym of a multi-genre writer whose award-winning poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in more than 200 publications on the regional, national, and international level. In addition, she serves as editor of a poetry magazine and manages a publishing house which specializes in poetry chapbooks and how-to-write textbooks.