Though I hardly know what sexual terms are. I hear it is all about dressing with lots of flesh on show as some of these girls have, and adorning your face with colour, and keeping your shape very lean. The whole process sounds very boring and arbitrary to me and not half as fun as thralling a man into doing whatever you want him to, but I’m sure it must be important when choosing a mate. Perhaps they need their bodies to fit together in a certain way, and one being lean and the other fat precludes this.
Though I have seen many a fleshy man with a slender woman.
This man is sort of fleshy. He seems to be very there in a way that the other men are not, but perhaps that is only because unlike most of them, he is wearing very tight clothes. They cling to his strange shape – his rounded bottom and his fleshy chest. He is lean, but he is also not lean.
He seems very casual, too.He is not posing in silks as some of them do, tops with names on them and trainers with lots of colour. His top his grey and his jeans are black. His jacket is black, too, and he has small flat trainers.
I like his awkwardness – the same awkwardness that Tommy had. He looks as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself, here. He looks as though he isn’t a part of this.
For a moment I think: vampire. But then the worry recedes – he isn’t at all. He’s tenderly, obviously human, tall and masculine but with a thread of such exposure running through him that my mouth actually floods with juice. There is something weak and strong inside him, and it makes me hungry.
His gaze flicks away, so suddenly nervous, so completely caught. He licks his lips, bites one of them, then can’t stop himself flicking his gaze back. It is such an odd little dance he does that for a moment another wild thought occurs to me: he knows. But such a thing seems impossible; they never know. Not even when they see it.
When he flutters a smile at me, I imagine his blood running down his ivory throat.
It is enough to make me turn away and close a fist down inside myself. I demand my control to come back and wonder at the same time how I lost it so quickly. All that separates me from the ferals and their ilk is this control, and for a moment it abandoned me altogether! And though I can hardly call it the first time this has happened, it’s the first time it has happened so strangely.
Just a man looking at me across the bar. With Tommy, it took more. He had to smile a certain way and pursue me like a silly fly and then—
I try to think of higher, more controlling, more calming thoughts, as the music changes. Now it’s this coming and going tremulous beat, this beat that says clearly that something is getting close. It isn’t a dancing sort of song, and it isn’t a slow song, and it lulls them all just the same. It prowls, this song.
I look back at the man and he seems caught, again. I have caught him staring a second time, and he is made uncomfortable by this. Rueful too, perhaps. And then his eyes trail all over me, not rudely but with a hint of unable-to-stop-himself, and I think: You’ve brought this end to yourself, boy.
He doesn’t know it, however. He just follows me when I walk right out of this club, oblivious. Like a good but stupid animal, led to the block. I barely even need to put a leash on him. He gives himself to me of his own free will.
Outside, it’s freezing cold. Of course I don’t feel it, but it’s clear he does. All his blood rushes to the middle of his body, and I can see his nipples peaking beneath the thin stretch of his top. His breath blooms out in the frosty air and I poke out my tongue to taste the moisture in it – like sugar treats and sizzling fat.
Very nice indeed.
He takes my tongue sticking out as something else altogether, however. He laughs, and tries to grab it – playfully, I think. But I give him a little shove, just to offer him a hint of what lurks beneath this nothing-looking outer layer.
His eyes widen. Not for long, though. He recovers himself soon enough, and asks me my name.
I gaze at him over my shoulder in response, steely-eyed, my thick dark hair like a veil cutting across the side of my face.
“I’m Nick, by the way,” he says. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He even sticks his hand out for me – to shake, I believe – though I think he’s laughing as he does it. There is something of a joke in all of this, even if I don’t know quite what it is.
Usually it’s the other way around: the joke’s on you, boy. But somehow I don’t think so, here, and, unaccountably, that makes a trickle of disquiet ease its way down my spine. I make a fist of cont inside myself and squeeze hard, but the disquiet doesn’t go away.
Odd, that a mere human boy should make me feel this way. And with nothing at all, really. Just his name, and his hand reaching for me.
His hand reaches for me again as we begin to slide between the glistening cars in the car park. This time, it doesn’t ask for my hand. His fingers graze my bare shoulder, instead. Along the line of the material, where it’s slid down.
“That’s a gorgeous dress,” he says, and suddenly I can smell him everywhere, very close. His smell is alien, somehow, and it pushes that unease up a notch. What does he mean about my dress? It isn’t a dress at all, but a man’s black jumper that I stole from a particularly tasty specimen. It hangs off me oddly, sometimes baring one shoulder. Sometimes riding up quite high on my thighs. I don’t think it is flattering, in the way human men prefer. I think it makes me look odd and short and as plump as his lower lip.
When I stop and lean against a metallic blue car on the very outer reaches of the car park, he squeezes right in, in front of me. His breathing is hard and shaky, but maybe that’s from having to keep up with me. I could run four times as fast as him without breaking a sweat, though I suspect it looks the other way around, for many people – him included.
I’m sure he thinks he has the upper hand. He doesn’t, but it nags at me that I still don’t know why he followed me, unbidden.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” he asks. “Or is this a no names sort of thing? Did I make a grievous error telling you mine?”
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about, but oh I like his voice. He’s … Australian, I believe it is. His voice lies back as relaxed as anything and just … takes it. That’s it, I think at him. Just lie back and take it.
Though I must admit, sometimes I like it when they struggle.
“So what now?” he asks – cocky, I think. Hands on hips, jacket pushed back to show off his body to its best advantage. It’s almost as though he knows and wants me to bite him.
Of course I’ve heard of such things: vampire groupies. Vampire wannabes. And yet there’s not even a lick of fear in him, of the kind he should be feeling if he knows. There’s excitement in his sweat and his heart is pounding, but no spike of terror.
Curiosity thrills through me. “Why don’t you tell me?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Wouldn’t have thought you were that kind of chick.”
“And what kind of chick do I look like?”
His eyes slide all over me, again. This time without nerves. “Like the kind who tells me what to do, not the other way around.”
“How perceptive of you.”
His heat swamps me. The contrast between his vibrantly alive body and the cold night air is overwhelming, as is the knowledge of where all of his blood is going. It isn’t to the middle of his body, any more. I believe I have misjudged this situation, quite badly.
“So are you going to order me to kiss you, or do I have to just make it happen?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure what I would say, even if I could speak. Of course, I’ve kissed a man before. I’ve kissed many men. But I’ve never done it mouth to mouth.
What would be the point?
He leans down slow, slow, and I follow his every tiny movement with my eyes. Anything sudden and unexpected, and I’ll fell him quicker than he can blink.
Though really, all of this is sudden and unexpected. It occurs to me, over and over: I haven’t thralled him. He’s doing this because he w
ants to. Because he wants to put his mouth to my mouth, and press his body close to me.
He tries to be he kisses me – move in close, I mean – but I place an iron hand on his chest. I only let him lower his face to mine, and watch him closely all the while. Unfortunately, I think he appreciates the eye contact. Maybe it’s the sort of thing human men like, staring and car parks and strange liaisons.
But either way, a pulse is throbbing in his groin. His prick is stiff – I know it without looking or feeling. I can feel it anyway, hot and full and pressing its presence against me through the space between us.
I’ve felt something like it, before. Sometimes when they’re thralled and dopey, and I bite them, their cocks swell. Like a reflex.
His kiss is not like a reflex. It is deliberate and careful, as though I might slap him if he gets it wrong. And maybe I will. Maybe I won’t let him ease his mouth over mine, as hot and wet as blood fresh from a vein. Maybe I won’t let him brush his tongue over my lips in a soft slippery stroke that makes me want to part them.
What does a tongue penetrating your mouth feel like, exactly?
Like this, like this. Oh Lord, so warm and insistent. I follow his movements – it isn’t hard, really – and he grows more excited, more urgent. His wet mouth slants over mine, pushing me and pushing me until his tongue is thrusting into my mouth and his taste is filling me up – that delicious meatiness, the sweet musky tang of him.
It’s almost like feeding. I can feel myself falling into that dark place, and soon his working mouth and slippery tongue are going to encounter more than just my soft acquiescence.
But then he pulls away before I can show him where I’m sharp, and burns his mouth over my jaw and throat. He murmurs words about my hotness, my sexiness, how he can’t wait to run his hands all over me.
He’s lying, however. He can wait. He just chooses not to.
Before I’ve even had chance to gather myself, he has his big hands on my waist, on my hips. I try to think where my iron hand has gone, but there’s so little consideration beyond the feel of his mouth against the turn of my throat. Almost as though he’s going to bite me.
I don’t respond as I’m sure I should. The correct response to a vampire trying to mark you is to bite back, to snarl and buck and fight. But Nick is not a vampire, and so I’m not quite sure what to do. He isn’t going to bite me – it only seems that way. This is a different sort of ritual altogether, and I’m not sure of the rules.
Or even if I want to follow them. At the moment, my body is following them for me, lying limp in his arms and wallowing in the warmth that spreads through me when he licks my throat. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be thralled, though I hardly think I’m that far gone into whatever this is.
Until his hand slides around and down my body, and roughly grabs a fistful of my arse. While I do nothing to stop him – not a single thing. I don’t push him or wrench his face to the side, so that I can sink my still unsheathed teeth in. I just relish the tense press of his fingers into my copious flesh, the spark of almost pain and the thrill of his hunger.
I’ve never felt a human man be so hungry for me. He’s rubbing his stiff prick against my belly, over and over. It’s like being branded – that’s how hot it feels – and the blood that has made his sex so swollen calls to me, constantly.
My own sex blooms and spreads, in answer. I know it does, as shocking as such a thought may be. I can’t remember the last time my body succumbed to something like sexual desire, but that’s the way he’s pushing things and it also seems to be a place I’m willing to be taken.
When he rubs up against me and groans deep and long into my throat, I spread my legs for him readily.
He senses the change in I would sense a change in my prey. I’m no longer ready to run or deny him, and so he becomes bolder. He pushes me hard against the chill metal of the car behind, and lets the hand that has a hold on my arse trail around my body, to the thin gap in between us.
Of course I know what he’s going for. The pulse that beats between my legs quickens for the feel of his hand, which is ruffling up the material of this thing I’m wearing. His skin is hot against my bare thigh, sliding smooth and sure along the tender inside as his left hand runs up my body to the other things I’ve long had no use for.
To my breasts, now these heavy and full things with searing hot tips, eager to push into his grasp. If he keeps on this way, I’m going to die. I will die, as surely as if he’d put an axe to my neck. Forced me to swallow silver. Doused me in garlic-riddled water.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? I can hardly remember. I remember Tommy, but by God that was fifty years ago. More. And Tommy was different, special, he craved me in the same way I crave blood.
“You’re so gorgeous,” this young buck says, but I don’t understand him. I haven’t understood humans for 100 years and I can’t process the things they like. I’m shaking, I realize, though he hardly seems to mind.
“Jesus, you want it bad, huh?” he gasps into my flesh, and I wrestle against what he means – he means his cock in me. He intends to have me up against this stupid thing that humans drive around in, and force me down deeper into the sensations that just his hands on my breasts and my thighs are provoking. I can feel my sex growing wet and ready to take him, my nipples stiffening beneath his sure caress. He fondles my breasts and then pulls his hand ever outwards, to catch the tip in an agonizing tug.
And oh God, the blood thrumming in his stiff prick. It’s deafening. I’m going mad. His fingertips are stroking over the slippery seam of my cunt, and he’s exclaiming in his strange innocent-sounding laid-back voice that he can’t believe I’m not wearing any underwear, that’s so hot, he wants me so bad …
I slam him back up against the car behind him. Hard enough to shock. He looks startled, though not enough to bring him out of this lust-addled mess he seems to have fallen into. His cock makes a firm triangle out of the material of his jeans – ridiculous. This is all ridiculous, and yet while his hands are still up in the air – the way people do, when they’re about to be arrested by the police – I reach for the buttons on his jeans. I rip them open.
Now, I am in control. I am in control and I’m going to taste that maddening flesh.
He does not in any way complain. Quite the contrary. He urges me on. He asks me incredulously if that’s what I’m going to do – suck his cock? And then he turns it into a kind of rough command that only makes these boiling sensations inside me stronger: God, suck me off.
I know what he means. He means to have me kneel on the floor and take his prick in my mouth, and then suck and lick and handle him until he spends over my tongue. I’ve seen it done. I’ve performed the act myself, when Tommy was fit to bursting and unable to understand what was happening to him.
I did it then, though I can hardly remember what it was like. And I’m sure I’m not about to do such a thing for him, now, here. I only what to sink my teeth into the stiff flesh he has there and drink deep. I do.
I think so even as I sink to my knees before him, and quiver all over to see him shove his jeans to his thighs.
“Oh, man,” he says. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”
He isn’t lying. I think, perhaps, that he is not the sort of man who ruts vacantly with any girl who crosses his pat I think he has barely done this kind of thing before in his lifetime, though I should say to him that he doesn’t know the half of it.
I don’t believe I have ever knelt before any man. And I cannot say what it is about him that makes him so worthy.
He looks delicious, stood above me. Tall and solid, ivory-skinned, wet lips parted. It’s starting to rain, a little, and it mists in his softly curled hair. And then there’s the thing between his legs. With his black jeans shoved down the way they are, his prick seems framed.
I think it might be deserving of such. It’s thick – much thicker than most human men, I know – and longer too besides. He looks pleased with himself, b
ut I can’t begrudge him that. The colour of it – as pale as milk – and the sense of its seething core, and the heft of it – all delight even me. The silky skin that wraps that core hugs close right to the very tip, which lies exposed and blood red, like a little secret heart.
Liquid glistens there, tempting me. His already curving prick jerks upwards, eager for my mouth, but he doesn’t try to force me. He doesn’t grab the back of my neck, as I would do to him.
I admire his patience. Especially when it’s employed out here, where anyone could catch us at any moment. That would be embarrassing for most humans, wouldn’t it? Shameful and shocking, to be caught with your cock in some woman’s mouth.
Still, he makes a very loud noise when I lick away the tiny bead of liquid that’s just welling from the slit at the tip. He gasps as though I’ve bitten him; bliss floods my body.
I had forgotten. It’s as good as blood. I had forgotten.
I swallow him down quickly, then. I take the whole of him into my mouth and he groans again, desperate this time. Desperate but grateful, I think. He tells me tales about his gratitude with lovely words that vibrate through me, just as the taste of his flesh does.
“Oh, good girl,” he says.
I have no idea why I like him saying such a thing, but I do anyway and, oh, the heat in him. The thrum of his blood, just below such a paper-thin surface. Such fine silken skin, sliding underneath my tongue and then my hands, too.
Of course, I move according to my own hunger and pleasure. I lap at that little slit because it gives me the liquid, and I suck hard on the swollen head because it makes him produce more. When I rub him, too, when I rub and suck and lick him all at the same time – it means that he bucks and spurts little thin trickles on to my tongue.
It’s a fortunate coincidence that what I want and like best is also apparently what he wants and likes best. I know, because I can hear his heart rate going up and smell all the hormones surging through his body and his hands are clenching at his sides.
The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance Page 54