by Renea Mason
“One day the ache stopped but was replaced by something more disturbing.” He unlaced the ribbons of my nightgown. My breasts fell free and with the pad of his thumb he caressed the flat tip of my nipple. The same fingers that earlier graced the piano keys now played me. He cupped one breast and with the other hand continued to stroke my puckered skin as I watched. I tried to control myself, but in a moment of weakness I arched my back and let out a sustained moan. So good.
He spoke, bringing me back from the edge. “It was need, Linden. I don’t want to need anything. I can make. I can destroy. Need implies something controls me and nothing controls me.”
My body, on fire from his touch, cried for more. I didn’t want to give in but was powerless. Ten years was a long time to go without being touched.
He continued to run his thumb over my nipple. “That night, in the concert hall, I felt need. It was you. I can never allow myself to need you. So, my only choice is to make you need me, because ridding myself of you is no longer an option.”
He shifted and in one swift movement, my legs draped over either side of his, spread wide exposing me to the cold air as it infiltrated my nightdress. He pulled my gown around my waist, revealing my underwear. He pressed light kisses along my neck, and his fangs grazed my skin. As he nipped, he hooked his fingers through the sides of my panties and ripped them free. The cold air jolted my body as it blew across my wet flesh. With my back to him, he hugged me tighter and palmed my sex. His middle finger pushed until it was securely wedged in my cleft.
“Tell me, Linden, what was I to you?” He panted in my ear.
I moved my hips to increase contact, to feel him inside me, but he lingered just out of reach. His hold grew tighter with my attempt but he made me wait. I groaned, half in pleasure and half in frustration. When I spoke, my words were little more than a sigh. “I’ve already told you.”
Part of me thought I should stop him; the rest knew I couldn’t. With him cocooned around me, touching me so intimately, I no longer had will of my own. He kissed my neck and shoulders and moved his hand up and down between my legs to create a delightful friction. The tip of his finger entered me with each downstroke. Pressure from his palm firm against my mound and each stroke of his finger teased my sensitive nub that lay in his path.
At my ear, he pleaded with me. “Tell me. Tell me your secret. What did you do to make me such a fool?”
His hands continued while he spoke. Every push against my sex forced me back against his evident arousal, and each time a moan escaped his lips, breaking through his words.
“I need you to need me, Linden.” He breathed heavy against my neck just below my ear. “I want you to need what I do to you.”
My breath labored and I found it hard to concentrate. His hand kept moving. The friction built.
He commanded on a whisper, “Tell me, Linden.” His growl grew faint as he rubbed himself against my back.
It had been so long since someone touched me, he’d gotten his wish. I did need him.
In a raspy voice I answered, “I will never tell you the truth.” I gasped as he increased the friction of his touch. “It’s…it’s…it’s…the only card I hold.”
He moaned and grunted as his hand pushed my body into his forcefully, and he whispered in a frustrated tone, “That’s unfortunate.”
The hand not between my legs was at his mouth. The audible lapping and sucking fueled anticipation. He moved his saliva-soaked palm to my breast. With circular motions, he teased my nipple, bringing it to an unbearable peak, and then cupped it, allowing the air to chill the wet, sensitive flesh. Muscles in my legs tightened with anticipation.
“I can’t need you, but I need you to need me. I know that makes me a selfish bastard but it’s all I can offer.”
He could have said anything at that moment. I was on the precipice waiting to fall when he abruptly stopped and moved his hand from between my legs.
He waited a moment. “This is what it feels like without you—heated need assaulted by cold air. Do you feel the ache?”
“Why did you stop?” I couldn’t believe I said it out loud.
“Feel it, Linden. Feel what I feel every time I’m not able to touch you. Now say it. Say you need me.”
Through gritted teeth, I responded, “Why?”
“Because I can’t need you.” His hang-up on semantics drove me crazy. He breathed heavy in my ear. “Say it!” He sucked the skin of my neck. His stubble rough against my chin and his heat only made the frigid air harder to take. His tongue ran in one languid swipe from shoulder to ear, causing a line of cold to follow.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Deciding it was better to explode from pleasure rather than frustration, I surrendered. “Fine!” I blurted out in my sublime moment of weakness. Hell, I had made declarations out of desperation many times, but this time was different. This time it was true, and that made the moment all the more dangerous.
“I need you,” I said in a barely audible whisper.
He let out a growl and his hand moved between my legs again, gliding over and between my slick folds. He started that slow, building rhythm once more.
His demand gave me a moment for my brain to clear, and I realized in both of our encounters, he had been behind me. “Why are you always behind me? Do you prefer to not look your women in the eye?”
“No. I rather enjoy looking you in the eye. In fact it’s something I love about you. But if you were facing me, I’d be buried inside you so far… I’m dying to see the look on your face the first time you take my cock. And don’t delude yourself, Linden, I will have you. But I know that’s not what you want tonight, so I’ll wait, but not forever.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Because now…I know you need me.”
He sped up the pace of his hand and with his other, turned my face so he could kiss me with forceful want. Faint sucking sounds filled the air as his fingers breached my core, then retreated only to delve again.
His tongue entered my mouth in a tantalizing dance as his hand completed one long stroke, landing two of his fingers deep inside me. Stroke after stroke, I felt him enter me with those digits that played such beautiful music.
He pinched my other nipple hard and buried his fingers as far as they could go. I was undone. My climax hit me as though I was in a free fall from the precipice he kept me on. Just as I started to climax, his mouth released mine and he sank his fangs into my neck. I cried out and spasmed in his arms as my body gripped his fingers, releasing a gush of fluid. He groaned against my neck. The pleasure surged so intensely, the sensation felt like it lasted days. I had never experienced anything like it. Even though we hadn’t made love, the close connection as he drank from my neck was powerful yet intimate. His other arm constricted and kept pace between my legs while he held me through the final quakes. He released his bite and licked the wound. My breathing returned to normal, and then he removed his hand.
He moved the fingers that were saturated with my desire to his mouth. I heard as he sucked each one between his lips. He whispered, “You taste as delectable as you smell.”
The heat started to flood my body again when he grabbed my head and held it in place with one hand cupping each temple. He murmured a few indiscernible words, then whispered, “I’m sorry but you have left me no choice. Forgive me.”
I gasped as the blackness closed in from the edges of my vision.
Chapter Eight
Cemetery
I stood in my aunt’s kitchen. It hadn’t changed in ten years. Impossible. Déjà vu and an even stranger sensation came over me, leaving me helpless to control my body. The event played back like a movie filmed in first person. I couldn’t interact with anything, just experience. I wondered if this was death.
If I was dead, this was not how I imagined it would be. Moment by moment, I lost control of my conscious thoughts and became encapsulated in my new surroundings. Things behind me faded as those in front of me became crystal clear. T
he feeling of déjà vu dissipated and the ringing in my ears stopped. I waited for whatever was going to happen.
My aunt Eva stood at the kitchen sink, cleaning an onion.
“Linden, would you mind stopping for milk on your way home?”
“Sure.” My answer came reluctantly. I wasn’t in control, but at the same time I lived it. So strange.
“Oh, and tell Mr. Fitz, if you see him, that those things were back last night. He should keep his windows closed.”
“You mean the bats?”
“You know very well they are not bats. Those little bastards will suck out your soul.”
“OK…I’ll tell him if I see him.” I had no plans to do so. “Later, Aunt Eva.”
I found it best not to fight it. The older I became, the more certain I felt something was not quite right. Eva and I never had a loving relationship. She was always distant. Never keeping the same man for long, she had no children of her own. So easy to understand her resentment of being forced to raise me, and coupled with her fragile mental state, it was impossible to get close to her. Many of her issues stemmed from the fantastical stories she recited with the most convincing delivery. My favorite—how demons killed my parents and cut me from my mother’s womb, giving me to Eva to raise.
Our town, a small, old coal-mining establishment, was situated twenty-five miles east of Pittsburgh. My plans did not include sticking around after I turned eighteen, but I’ve heard life is what happens while you’re making other plans. My aunt’s illness caused me to turn down the full scholarship in lieu of picking up a few courses at a local university so I could live here and care for her.
My aunt’s decline was hard to watch and the local cemetery served as a getaway. I had always been drawn to the peaceful place that sat on the highest hill, overlooking the breathtaking Laurel Mountain Ridge. I used that time to journal, write songs, and think. Since high school no longer consumed my day, I spent more time among the stones avoiding my aunt’s episodes.
That day I had my journal with me and a plan to work out my feelings for Matt Williams. He was in my freshman calculus class and since we were finally settling into a routine, I decided it might be a good time to introduce myself. He had worn a Marilyn Manson T-shirt the Friday before, and I found it odd. He was usually clean-cut and preppy. Gathering my courage, I had walked up to his desk and taken a chance.
“Interesting shirt, why are you wearing it?” Mortification ran through me at how accusatory it sounded, but when he grinned my tension eased.
He paused for a moment. “Because he does what he wants, when he wants, how he wants, and I like that.”
Before I could stop myself, I retorted, “Well, I do what I want, when I want, and how I want, but I don’t see you wearing a shirt with me on it.”
He laughed with a flirtatious edge. “Make me one and I’ll wear it.”
“Fine, I will.” I glanced over my shoulder and shot him a mischievous grin as I walked away.
The exchange was fresh in my mind, and I wanted to work through my feelings on paper. I found my favorite spot at the top of the cemetery by the headstone of Clement Burleighes, a mason and local lawyer who died in 1810. That part of the cemetery was old and, the spot I chose, hard to see from the road. I had often wondered if the mysterious connection I felt was to Mr. Burleighes himself, or to his resting place.
It was early fall in Pennsylvania and the leaves hadn’t started to change, but the air was crisp. Taking out my pen and paper, I thought of Matt. Thinking of how to phrase my first sentence, I looked up to see the most unforgettable sight.
I didn’t recognize the man in my cemetery. He walked a few steps, stopped, and closed his eyes while mumbling to himself. His shoulder-length black hair was tucked behind his ear; his skin, a beautiful alabaster. His features were angular and bold, his size intimidating. He wore a black business suit and couldn’t seem more out of his element. His lips continued to form soundless words as he paused every few feet. He open then closed his eyes again, inhaled, looked around, and then walked off in another direction. I sat against Clement’s stone, trying not to make a noise. I tucked my legs under me, set my journal on the ground, and leaned from side to side, trying not to lose sight of the impressive stranger. His movements were bizarre, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. With another inhalation, his eyes opened and searched again.
He turned and made eye contact with me. I picked up my journal and put my head down to hide the fact I was ogling him. As I sat there, pretending to be fixated on my journal, I felt the absence of sunlight from his shadow as he moved to stand before me.
Lifting my head to meet his eyes, we locked gazes and I swallowed hard. He was intimidating from afar, but from a seated position on the ground, he was godlike—so tall and broad shouldered with unmatched good looks. He cleared his throat.
“What is a beautiful young lady, such as you, doing in a solemn place like this?” His voice was laced with charm and sophistication. His accent seemed a mix of something unfamiliar and British.
He lowered himself to one knee and rested his arm across it. Even at eye level, he was massive and I could feel the heat from his body. I swallowed hard again and pushed down my nervousness.
“It’s not solemn at all. This is the place where I can be the bright spot, that one spark of light. It’s the absence of life that allows the flame to grow brighter; it makes me feel more alive.” I smiled.
I wasn’t quite sure where that came from. Having written many passages in my journal speculating about why I found so much peace here, I was shocked it came out in the form of those words, especially to him.
“That’s a very interesting observation, Miss…?” He waited for my response.
I paused. Telling him my first name couldn’t hurt. “Linden, my name is Linden.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” He looked at the trees surrounding him and arched a brow.
I knew what he was thinking, and the nervousness rushing through me caused me to babble. “It is my real name. But, yes, I was named after the trees. There are several in my backyard. My aunt believes they are a ward against evil. She named me Linden, so I would be protected. Ah, sorry, it’s a stupid story.”
“No, not at all. It’s a wonderful story. Linden, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand.
Hesitant at first, I accepted it. When his fingers closed around mine, it was electric. I stared at our hands as I felt his eyes concentrating on me. Lifting my gaze, our eyes met; the contact completed the circuit. His face held a sign of bewilderment. My mouth gaped and I wanted to ask his name but couldn’t break the connection. What surged through me was something more than lust. Desire was fleeting. This was soul altering.
Somewhere in my mind I knew I would never be the same. The experience could only be surpassed by gazing upon God himself. A knot formed in my chest, and he saved me from a consumption of unknown means by releasing my hand.
As though he could read my mind, he said softly, in a deep seductive voice, “You may call me Cyril.”
I paused far too long. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“I must be going. All my best to you, my Light.” He inclined his head, rose from his kneeling position, and walked away.
Ten minutes later, I still hadn’t moved. The man was beyond words. Move over Matt Williams.
* * *
The next week was pretty much the same. I bantered with Matt and we sketched the design for a shirt featuring yours truly. I vetoed the likeness of me in a Madonna cone bra but our exchanges were lighthearted and fun. I enjoyed seeing Matt, but he had gone from being the only star in my sky to being eclipsed by the sun.
Each day, I returned to the cemetery with my journal and sat with Clement while hoping Cyril would make another appearance. He was so unearthly; I had a hard time grounding him in reality. I told no one about meeting him. Even though I never wanted to admit it to myself, I was afraid he may be the first dip in
the pond of delusion my aunt was submerged in. I decided not to overthink it and enjoy the tickling feeling in my gut anticipation brought.
On day six, I saw him again. He drove his car into the cemetery. I wasn’t savvy enough to know the model, but it was a black and sporty BMW. If a car could be described as sexy, it was that car. He emerged, seeming too large for the small vehicle, and stalked toward me like a lion. I had ample time to take him in, as the road was some distance away. I stood, trying to remove the stupid smile from my face. His greeting was equally awkward. He motioned for me to sit, and in one graceful movement, folded himself onto the grass beside me. The ground was sprinkled with leaves. A cool breeze whipped them around under an overcast sky.
“Here,” he said, handing me a book.
I smiled but did not reach for it. “I was once told I shouldn’t accept gifts from strangers.”
He scoffed. “Strangers? You know my name and I know yours; the formalities have been satisfied.” He smiled, charming and devastating. “Besides, isn’t the best part of friendship the discovery of one another? Friendship doesn’t start once you know all there is to know, it’s the journey we share.”
I smiled at his wisdom and took the book. Beautiful, bound in leather with golden symbols resembling a delicate tree, the pattern tight and every branch different.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, examining the cover. Skimming my hands over the book’s shallow relief, I flipped through the pages. They were blank. The book caused the tips of my fingers to tingle, reminiscent of the electricity that existed when I shook Cyril’s hand. “It’s a journal?”
“Of sorts. I call it ‘The Book of Good Things.’ Only good, beautiful, and happy things should be written in it. If you ever worry you’ll suffer nightmares, write in the book all the things you want to dream of and it will turn all your thoughts to good.” His grin held a sly edge, but the brightness overshadowed it.