by Aja James
He silently accepted her invitation anyway by following her down the steps of her basement apartment in a posh part of Soho, and then inside her abode once she unlocked and opened the door with efficiency.
He was well over ten times as strong as she and a trained killer besides. He was certainly not the prey in this scenario.
Just as efficiently, she locked the door the moment they were both within the entryway, working a series of four locks and deadbolts in addition to punching in the codes to a state-of-the-art security system. No one was getting into her fortress unless she voluntarily admitted them.
Devlin wondered if the same applied for getting out.
And then she turned to him, her back to the door, as if blocking his nearest exit, adding further fuel to his suspicion.
It occurred to him vaguely that she hadn’t turned on any lights. Devlin’s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. A vampire’s vision was almost as keen in the dark as it was in light, sometimes more so if on the hunt. He could see her staring solemnly and fixatedly at him.
She moistened her lips with a small pink tongue. Like a lioness about to dig into a fresh antelope.
Devlin was becoming just a tad alarmed.
“Grace, perhaps we should—”
Again she cut him off, this time by coming to stand immediately before him, her fingers methodically and calmly working on the buttons of his silk Gieves and Hawkes French-Cuff shirt.
“What are you doing?” he asked rather inanely.
Clearly, she was unbuttoning his shirt. Probably why she didn’t deign to respond.
When she tugged the tails out of his tailored slacks, he caught her wrists in a loose but firm grasp.
“Grace, we’ve just met, and while I’m flattered by your…”
Attention? Interest? None of those seemed to be the right words. She hadn’t expressed any interest nor given him any special attention all night, short though their time had been.
But she did stare at him. There was that.
“Grace,” he tried again, when she deftly twisted free of his grasp and started on his pants zipper, “is removing my clothing a necessary part of being a guest in your home? Is this the Grace Darling version of shucking shoes upon entry?”
He asked the question teasingly, but one never knew with Grace. He’d had enough exchanges with her by now to glean that she had unusual habits, unexpected idiosyncrasies.
Perhaps removing the guest’s clothing was one of her many rituals, like feeding her goldfish and chinchilla promptly at 10pm every night and eating a banana with a cup of coffee every morning without fail, followed by thirty minutes in the bathroom.
While most people found comfort and calmness in having a recognizable pattern to their days, Grace’s patterns were non-negotiable, immutable. If any aspect of her rituals was altered, she could barely struggle through the day.
She seemed to have inordinate trouble with his zipper, though she showed no signs of impatience as one hand gently tugged at the silver tab while the other boldly and unapologetically palmed his male parts, pushing his person away from the fly to help get it open.
Because strangely, his cock was already hard and leaping against the fabric, so swollen in fact that the zipper was unable to descend without risk of snagging his most sensitive flesh as he wasn’t in the habit of using underwear.
And he wasn’t even attracted to the woman!
Was he?
Devlin grasped her hands again and held them away from his body, this time in a tighter grip, one she couldn’t wiggle out of.
“Grace, if this is headed where I think you’re intending it to go, I have to tell you now that I’m not the sort of man who has one night stands.”
His comrades wouldn’t believe it, but Devlin was speaking truth.
Even those closest to him thought he had a different female every night, that his sexual appetite was insatiable and needed variety to take the edge off.
But while he did indeed flirt with and appreciate a wide array of females, and generously shared kisses and caresses as naturally as he breathed, and he did indulge in marathon bed sport whenever he felt the urge with accommodating partners, each woman was a friend, each knew his rules.
And their number over the three or four human lifetimes he’d lived was actually shockingly small.
In fact, he’d only been with one woman in his human life.
Grace finally looked up into his eyes.
“It’s not a one night stand,” she stated reasonably, “we have two weeks.”
He narrowed his eyes, the better to concentrate, because he’d never had so much trouble understanding another living being.
“What do we have for two weeks?”
“Sex,” she said in her low, rather sultry voice.
Devlin shivered at the sound of it, at the way she drew out that particular word like a sinful promise.
“We will have sex for two weeks,” she elaborated. “Not one night. So it’s okay.”
He had to ask.
“Why two weeks?”
She looked back down at her hands trapped in his and tugged. He didn’t release her. Her words were muffled by her lowered head when she replied.
“That’s how long before I feel normal again. It’s a chemical thing. Hormones.”
She said this matter-of-factly and clearly expected him to accept without question that she was horny and needed regular sex for two weeks to provide relief.
And he happened to be the closest penis.
Wait.
Had she been planning to have a sexual marathon for two weeks with a pudgy, balding Azor Ahai? And Devlin just happened to be at the right place at the right time and was really a consolation prize?
It would be too lowering if true.
“Grace,” he tried again, though he wasn’t sure any logic or reasoning would work with her, alien creature that she was, “this is our first date. I’d like to get to know you better before we’re intimate.”
And honestly, he would have preferred not to mix business with pleasure. He was getting close to her for a purpose—information. And potential leveraging of her skills. But since sex was apparently a bonus thrown in the mix, he was not philosophically opposed to it either. It was just that casual sex had never appealed to him.
Surely that wasn’t too much to ask. He knew that humans in the twenty-first century, especially in the world of online dating, didn’t think twice about sexual congress with strangers.
To be fair, strangers humped each other during his era as well, just usually within the bounds of marriage or in a designated den of iniquity.
This was careless sex. Like bumping into someone on the street. Or greasy fast food. It might feel good going down, but one felt revolted afterwards.
Devlin had always regarded sex as something very personal. To enjoy it, he must feel some sort of connection or affection for the other party.
She looked back up at him.
“You’re not a virgin?” It was a statement posed as a question. As if she was certain he couldn’t possibly be untried, but couldn’t otherwise puzzle out his hesitation.
“No. That’s not—”
“And we haven’t just met,” she plunged on, “We’ve chatted for months online. It’s longer than most relationships these days. I consider you a friend of sorts.”
Disturbingly, Devlin couldn’t say he didn’t feel the same for her.
True, they spoke of very platonic, superficial things, but occasionally, there was a deeper connection. She often amused him with her short-circuited thought process and unintentional wit.
She stopped trying to get her hands free and instead used his grip on her to pull herself closer to him until they were infinitesimally touching, torso to torso, toe to toe.
“I can make this the most euphoric two weeks you’ve ever had,” she promised in that low, unconsciously sensuous contralto.
Everything went ramrod straight in Devlin’s body, catching up with the posture his c
ock had the foresight to strike first.
“I know six hundred ninety three ways to make a man climax and prolong his pleasure. I’ve only ever used twenty-seven of those ways on anyone, collectively, not individually—after all, men are easily brought to orgasm—but if you have the stamina, I have the creativity.”
Holy…
She didn’t speak much all night. That was the longest monologue yet.
But, Good Lord!
When she did speak, she certainly packed a wallop.
She put her lips on the heated skin of his chest, bared by the open shirt.
Not to kiss him. No, she merely grazed her satiny lips back and forth, barely touching, across a concentrated patch of skin. Moistening his epidermis by methodical degrees.
In her bare feet, the top of her head reached just under his chin. Her lips were level with the deep groove that bisected his pectorals. And while her lips played havoc on an erogenous zone Devlin didn’t even know he had, she added the tips of her breasts to the sensual assault by pressing the hardened buds to his ribs and lazily stroking them like the strings of a harp.
With her nipples. Through the fabric of the nondescript blouse she still wore, while he was already half undressed.
Devlin was distantly shocked at how turned on he was.
His passions ran high, it was true, but he always had full control of the accelerator and brakes. He’d even been able to fully control the pace of his first time as an idealistic, randy youth of twenty.
It was also his last time as a human.
Now it was as if someone had cut the brake lines of his libido, and pleasure blasted forth like a runaway train. He was an uninitiated adolescent again, discovering his first erection after a night of wet dreams, both awed by the power surge of sexual awakening and horrified by his inability to contain it. He was simply at its mercy.
At her mercy.
She tilted her eyes upward as she kept the delicate pressure on three critical points on his torso, the Bermuda triangle of ecstasy he didn’t even know he possessed, and murmured:
“How about it, friend? Shall we proceed?”
*** *** *** ***
Yep, he was a strong one, Grace thought to herself.
None of her other sex partners (she would never call them something so inappropriate as lovers because that emotion, or any emotion, wasn’t required for the act) had ever lasted this long.
Matter of fact, none of them had ever thought to decline her invitation to two weeks of orgy where they benefited as much as she did.
She’d had partners of all sorts, some awkward, some extremely introverted, some with strange fetishes; one was actually a closet sex addict. All carefully chosen, all screened for STDs, all perfectly harmless, she’d made sure of that.
Harmless and easily controlled by her.
Slaves to her every whim once she showed them early on how adept she was at giving pleasure. She never saw them again after the two weeks were over. She didn’t want to form any attachments.
Or rather, she wasn’t able to form any attachments.
But Devlin Sinclair was a whole different ball game. Even though he didn’t escort her home expecting to get laid, usually when a man was offered sex with no strings attached, he didn’t often decline.
Sinclair apparently did. Or valiantly tried to anyway.
But Grace could see him cracking under her expert assault. It wasn’t just her skill that was undoing his restraint, however, it was the man himself.
He was a born sensualist.
From the tips of his wavy dark blonde hair to the ends of his manly heels, Grace was certain his entire body could become one giant erogenous zone. She could tell, because, ironically, she herself was a sensualist. Ironic, because mentally and emotionally, she was cold as stone. But physically, her senses were extremely keen, well attuned to the full spectrum of pleasure and pain.
She could tell, for example, that he was sensitive to sounds. His breathing had deepened when she lowered her voice and added husk to her tone. She could tell that if she nuzzled his nipples with her face, he would feel the caress deep in his scrotum, sending fissures of pleasure into his penis.
As she did so now, she felt his erection leap between their bodies, trying to batter its way out of its confines to freedom.
She looked up and gave him a rare smile.
She felt triumphant that she was able to provoke these reactions from him, that she was able to bring him such exquisite pleasure. And this was only one speck in the infinity of ecstasy he was capable of unleashing. She knew that even now, he was holding himself in check. That he was allowing this to happen. Perhaps only up to a certain point.
She wanted to be the one to drive him wild.
So strange. She’d never felt this way with anyone before.
But when she gazed into his eyes, she got trapped again within the bright blue beams, simply stuck there like a fly flattened on a spider’s web.
It had happened many times over the course of the evening. Sometimes she was so mesmerized she couldn’t even blink, and more than once she’d had to remind herself to breathe.
Even in the pitch black of her lightless studio apartment his eyes glittered like diamonds. His pupils were dilated and enormous, like two solar eclipses, as he held her immobile with his gaze.
Grace felt herself falling into those twin black pools, into the tumultuous depths of his memories.
She felt like she was drowning. And she didn’t care if she did.
“Grace,” he murmured her name, as if he felt it too, this indescribable magnetism that held them both enthralled.
They didn’t know each other at all. Not really. She’d never wanted to know anyone.
To know someone you would have to take interest enough to learn. Learning took patience and dedication and persistence. And in the process you would have to open yourself up to be known in return.
Grace could never find the interest to start this arduous journey, much less complete it.
But suddenly, she discovered that she was interested in this man.
Well, truthfully, she’d been interested in him since she spied him making his way toward her table in the restaurant. She might have even prayed, unconsciously, to some minor deity that this resplendent creature was meant for her, for she never dreamed he would claim to be her chat room connection.
The real Azor Ahai was definitely a foot shorter, pudgy and balding.
But after he sat down and started conversing, she knew, knew, that he was actually the one she had been chatting with, perhaps starting from the second week of their online acquaintance. His use of words, his subtle dry wit—they were exactly the same.
She’d tried to block out the inexplicable feelings the sight of him aroused, less because of his beauty and more because of him. But after he touched her shoulder… that was it. He’d sealed his own doom.
She wasn’t lying earlier just to get him to stay with her. She wanted to be his friend, and she wanted his friendship in return.
What did that even mean? It was such a foreign feeling that she inwardly recoiled. She had no confidence that she would be able to learn him. She hated to fail, so she never started anything she couldn’t do.
And then she remembered that she could give him pleasure. Perhaps she could start to learn him through shared pleasure.
Two. Whole. Tantric. Weeks. Of it.
Grace finally blinked and broke their gaze. With her sense of purpose restored, she tugged at her hands again, still trapped in his.
This time, he relented, loosening his hold on her enough that she pulled herself free.
With utmost concentration, she worked at his pants zipper again and pulled it down without hurting his swollen, sensitive flesh.
She pushed the tailored slacks down the perfectly round, sculpted muscles of his buttocks where it pooled around his ankles. Next, she pulled his shirt off his shoulders as he shucked his shoes and socks.
He was finally participating rather tha
n trying to stop her. Her heart, an organ that Grace usually forgot was there, gave a little leap of jubilation.
Still fully dressed, she put her palms on his pecs and gently pushed him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the over-sized leather armchair at the foot of her bed.
With another more forceful push, he fell into the chair in a sprawl while she stood facing him between his opened thighs.
She knew he was staring intently at her, trying to catch her eyes again, but she wouldn’t let him. She couldn’t afford to get stuck in the web of his gaze; she wanted, needed, to concentrate on giving him pleasure.
Because when she heard his breath hitch, felt his skin heat, smelled his musk deepen…she felt pleasure.
She was already hot and wet at her core. She could feel her fluids soak through her panties and pants. He didn’t even have to touch her—all she had to do was touch him—and she was on the verge of orgasm herself.
This was an unexpected new discovery her methodical mind wanted to explore at length, trying every one of the six hundred and ninety three means of pleasing him. Meanwhile her sensualist body clamored for her to just get on with one, so she could find release.
Grace slowly straddled his thighs, bracing her hands on the arms of the chair, dragging the slightly scratchy fibers of wool in her blended-cotton slacks along his legs, until her fully clothed crotch met his naked erection.
She undulated just slightly, abrading his sensitive flesh.
His breathing deepened, as if he was trying to control his reactions.
She didn’t want him to be in control, so she concentrated on breaking it. She kept her hands on the armrests, and she noticed that he kept his arms and hands at his sides, not holding her, not touching her.
His posture said that he was willing to cede some of his control, to see where she led this.
Grace was thrilled.
But where to start?
His body was too beautiful—there was no other word for it in the end, the English language was simply too limited, and no other modifier would do because his beauty literally overwhelmed her.
Her mental acuity was rapidly receding under the onslaught of raw, pounding lust as she took him in… so many pleasure centers to choose from.