“I’m Seraphina. “Of course, darling. Sex videos I’m working.”
Seraphina’s smirk twitched, and with a lazy snap of her fingers—those red claws flashing—the man scurried off, returning moments later with a glass of water, ice clinking. When did you decide you’re a vampire?”
The interview rolled out—standard questions met with vague, theatrical answers. “What the—fuck—” Lena gasped, eyes wide, but her body betrayed her, left hand diving between her thighs, rubbing her pussy through her jeans, rough denim grinding against her clit. “Creepy,” she mumbled, trudging up the short path, her skepticism a shield against the unease prickling her spine. Her dress was vampiric perfection—black velvet, floor-length, clinging to a lush hourglass figure, slit high to reveal fishnet-clad ankles flowing into elegant stiletto heels, glossy black, five inches of wicked grace. This journalist—cute in her frumpy way, all repressed edges and defiance—was a challenge, and Seraphina didn’t back down from those. Lena smirked, mid-scribble. Just stories.” Seraphina smirked, sipping champagne, nails tapping the glass. The woman was stunning, late 40s but ageless, with porcelain skin, jet-black hair cascading in waves, and crimson lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Let’s just get this circus over with.”
The house loomed ahead—three stories of dark stone, ivy choking the walls, stained-glass windows glinting like eyes in the dusk.
