Fighting
and killing and being so close to dying makes them crave the only act as
primal and raw as this strange murder of the undead.
Violence tempered with life instead of death.
Lust made toxic. Poisoned
by the desperate thrill of blood on their hands and dust in their mouths.
Lust
stronger than wine. Stronger than
drugs. Probably still not as
strong as the instincts bred in her blood.
Not as strong as her legs wrapped around his waist.
He
barely closes his apartment door before grabbing her, lifting her, drawing her
to his mouth. The stake is still in her hand, pressing into the back of his
neck as she grips him and her tongue dives into his mouth.
Her limbs tiny and delicate and wrapped around him like a vice.
And he’s so tall that holding her against him like this, bracing her
between his chest and the wall, is almost like flying.
She releases him just long enough to push the jacket off his shoulders.
Taking
the cue, he presses her hard between him and the wall and takes one hand off
her ass at a time, shrugging the jacket off one shoulder and then the other
and letting it drop behind him.
Then
he lifts her, carries her, lays her out on the bed and she’s scrambling.
She tugs off her jacket, her boots, her shirt, her pants.
He toes off his shoes while he pulls off his shirt, unbuttons his pants
and lets them fall on top of the shoes. Yanks
off his socks because that’s just not sexy.
But he isn’t wearing underwear and that is sexy.
He
falls onto the bed beside her. He’s
naked and she still has on fine, thin lace cupped over her breasts and
stretched in a demure triangle where her legs meet.
She
rolls over on top of him, smothering him beneath her tiny, hard body.
It shouldn’t be possible. She’s
small and wiry. He’s tall and
well-muscled. She shouldn’t be
able to overpower him, to possess him, to violate him.
But he reaches out one hand to cup her breast and she grips his wrist,
throws back his hand and pins his wrist up beside his head.
He
gasps and grunts a bit as her nails dig in, but he keeps his other hand at his
side. The threat’s enough to
keep him still. It isn’t so
much that she likes to hurt him. Rather, she likes the wince that lets her know she’s
stronger than him.
Her
mouth locks onto the swell of muscle where his chest touches his collarbone.
He arches under her, his hand twitches at his side, desperate to touch
but unwilling to risk her grabbing that wrist too, twisting it, trapping it.
She
writhes against him. Her belly
sliding sweat-soaked along his tense, rippling abs.
Wet lace moves along his rock-hard length as she sucks and undulates.
He’s
delirious and she’s empowered. And
it’s like being poisoned and trying not to die when you know it’s
inevitable.
But
it’s poison made delicious. Not
by a sugar, candy coating. Made
delicious by the bruise on his throat in the shape of a hand.
By the boot print on her abdomen, on his lower back.
The same boot, the same heinous vampire and they’d dusted that one
together. Each taking vengeance
for the other.
She
wants every mark on his body to be shaped like her mouth.
He wants all the sweat on her body to taste like him.
Feeling
him so close but not close enough drives her wild.
She bites down on the flesh of his chest.
A little hard because he cries out and every muscle under her tightens.
Feeling him this hard and stretched out under her makes her hotter and
wetter and achingly desperate. She
inches down, feels him between her legs, moves, aching for the thrill of
friction made by the lace between her tender skin and his.
Her
skin is tingling and pulling away from her, like she isn’t really in her
body anymore. Like a bad trip. She
reaches down, touches where she’s wet, drawing a breath to return to her
body because sometimes it’s too much to be with him. This absolute abandon where she knows she has the power and
he can’t hurt her.
And
he’s rising up under her.
His
hand touches her hip, trying to draw her back, trying to pull her down on him.
She
slaps his hand and pins it to his side, under her knee.
Bony knee digging into the dozens of tiny, fragile bones in his hand
and wrist.
Hot,
wet behind a layer of lace sliding along the swollen shaft.
Pleasure
and pain battle and he’s drowning in sensations, like breath hot and wet on
his chest and echoing in his head, like blood and sweat and sex filling his
nostrils and coating his throat and he swallows it down like strong, burning
liquor.
It
aches in his stomach.
It
aches in her throat. She’s
holding in screams and tears and she hasn’t been penetrated and she’s
barely been touched and she’s about to come just from the heat in the room
and the way he looks at her with helpless, clouded eyes.
She
knows she’s stronger but she wants to drown in him now.
In one breath, she rocks back, releases both his hands and puts herself
off-balance, feels the room shift and spin as he springs up and turns her and
throws her under him.
She’s
coiled under him, ready to explode and burn hotter than hydrogen and he seems
not to even care about containing her. He
pushes the lace aside and pushes into her and on a single breath, they both
whine, whimpering against pleasure and pain that are the same thing.
They
both move hot and desperate and their motions aren’t similar, aren’t even
really complimentary. He moves in
quickly, out slowly. She twists
in an ever-tightening spiral, drawing everything down into a tight, little
point where everything is hot and wet and red.
She
spins down until there’s nothing left but a white-hot coil and him too big
sliding into her too small and the tension is too much and her entire world
flashes black and red and white and she has no control but she’s shaking and
her limbs wrap around him in something like instinct even though she’s
stronger than him and he should be the one clinging to her and a moment later,
he stills and shoots inside her and then he is clinging to her like he knows
that she’s more than him.
And
the world is nothing outside this, hot and trembling and aching from muscles
abused in battle and pulled too tight in pleasure.
He’s exhausted but he doesn’t put his weight down on her though he
knows she’s strong enough to take it.
He
lazily licks the sweat from her throat, licks a trail along her jaw, touches
her mouth softly before he falls back beside her.
She
turns to look at him as his eyes close and he catches his breath.
New red and purple stand out on his skin.
Ugly on his throat where a vamp had the gall to try to hold what is
hers, beautiful on his chest where she sucked and bit and now it looks like
dark burgundy lipstick staining him.
Beautiful
on his wrist where five perfect little fingers held him down.
Seeing him marked like this, she thanks God she got over Angel because
she never owned him like this. She’d
heard it said once, "He who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy." But
she felt stronger having tasted Riley.
--End--