Blacker than Black

by Rhi Etzweiler

  My skin tingles despite the layers of clothing that separate us. His arousal rests heavily against my groin, eliciting an almost instantaneous response from me. Quick enough to make me lightheaded. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but all I manage to do is gasp.

  His lips brush feather-light against mine.

  “Not here.” My frantic brain slips gears for what seems an eternity before something snags and catches.

  Leonard’s mouth hovers close, every puff of breath mixing with mine. He smells of scotch. I want to taste it. But not here. Gaia please, not in the middle of the hallway with how many lyche lurking everywhere. His gaze slams back into mine, yellow eyes half glazed with energy-driven lust.

  Oh hell, who am I kidding? The only thing I care about at this moment, the only thought registering in my brain, is the fervent hope that he does more than dry-hump me this time.

  “Not here,” I repeat. And stare at his mouth. I want to kiss him. Badly. I tear my gaze away from his lips and look him in the eyes. “I want you naked this time.”

  Leonard blinks. Either I made something snap irreparably, or I forced his brain to reengage. He smiles, lips curling by slow increments. I never realized how much pleasure I could find in witnessing the birth of a truly authentic expression. It steals the breath from my chest.

  “Ditto,” he murmurs, grabbing my hand. He turns and heads off down the corridor again. He’s not running, but it’s a close thing. And I think if anyone, or anything, interrupts or tries to thwart him . . . well. It won’t be pretty.

  He takes me back to his little den of darkness, shadows deeper than a moonless night. No starshine, here. Does he feel at home anywhere else in this sprawling stone monstrosity?

  Leonard doesn’t stop at the couch like I half expect. So I follow along behind him, feeling my way with fingers trailing over passing furniture. Through an open doorway, indistinguishable from the shadows. The wood is smooth and warm to the touch.

  He turns back, cups a hand against the nape of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine, nibbling my lips, brushing teasingly, the tip of his tongue flicking out to trace over my jaw.

  “Leonard.”

  He hums at me. I fist both hands in the front of his shirt to either side of his buttons, and rip it open in one swift jerk.

  “Impatient?” he asks against my ear before licking his way back down my neck.

  “Aren’t you?” I flatten my hands against his chest and run my palms over his ribs, enjoy the texture of his toned muscles undulating beneath my touch in the darkness. The searing pleasure-heat of our auras sliding against one another with every movement, in and through, is almost as stimulating as the physical contact. The waistline of his trousers thwarts my exploration. So I fumble with them.

  “Anticipation is a good thing, though.” He takes his time undoing each individual button on my shirt. Damn good thing I only did half of them.

  “This from the man who almost tried to take me in the corridor. The height of restraint and eloquence.”

  His hands fall still for a moment, as if he forgets what he was doing.

  Did I say something wrong? No, I don’t think so. I push his trousers off his hips, letting my hands linger on the expanse of bared flesh. The curve of bone, hard and unyielding, the bulge of pliant muscle and flesh. Heat radiating into my palm. My fingertips trail along the groove of his oblique muscle, memorizing each nuance of his form.

  “It’s . . . very difficult to concentrate . . . when you do that,” Leonard murmurs in my ear as he deftly opens my trousers and encourages the material to slump to the floor. He shrugs his shirt off and slides his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, as if intent on tracing every inch of flesh.

  His mouth is back on mine, tongue thrusting between my lips. I moan and lean into him, meeting his advance with one of my own as he twines his arms around me and walks us backward. There better be a bed back there somewhere.

  Skin to skin, the tingle of auras brushing against one another is nonexistent. Instead, there’s the intimate heat that comes when two auras are fully meshed—that satisfaction of having found a way to crawl inside another person’s skin.

  Leonard disengages his mouth from mine and stares into my eyes. His gaze flicks past me. “Bed,” he says significantly, as if the furniture in question will manifest at his command. His arms tighten, twining to pull me flush against him as he lowers us both down onto the slick, pliant surface of black satin sheets.

  The bedroom’s black-light illumination creeps in along the edges of my sight finally, eyes adjusting slowly. I can see Leonard crouched above me, braced on his forearms. Every line of silhouette arresting in its beauty. I want to trace them with my fingertips, but don’t want to block my view. His burnished gaze is glazed, half-hooded. Energy craze, I’ve heard it called—in whispers, by the Nightwalkers that follow the darker path. The ones that mix aura with orgasm and don’t last very long. My aura thrums in tandem to the pulse in my temple, matching cadence with the resonance of his. It feeds back and forth between us, amplifying, gathering momentum like a gravity-fed roller coaster crawling up the lift. The anticipation of the inevitable drop, the thrill, the relinquishing of control, the embrace of power, none of it prepares you for the exhilaration of feeling the wind whip through your hair, pull at your clothes . . .

  His lips move, but form no words I can hear. He exhales, a ragged unsteady breath, and stretches the length of his body along mine, half on top of me, our legs tangled together. His erection juts firmly into my stomach, hard and hot against my skin, brushing against mine as he shifts his hips.

  There was something I needed to say, wanted to tell him, but the thought is gone. Higher brain function, exit stage left.

  Leonard’s lips trail away from my mouth, the rhythm of his caresses matching the thrust of his hips against me. Long legs wrestling with mine, skin stroking skin, he kisses along the curve of my jaw, sucks on the lobe of my ear, tracing it with the tip of his tongue. Tingling waves of pleasure shudder through my body, and I undulate against him. Lost in a flood of sensation and mindless lust.

  “Lovely, mon noire.” He whispers against my skin, breath harsh, loud. He draws one knee up, thigh muscle heavy against my hip, his fingers roughly stroking my shaft before gripping me. The firm touch is welcome, sends pleasure searing along my nerve endings, and I roll my hips into the caress. He says something else, husky voice murmuring against my skin, but the words are lost as he swipes his thumb over my glans.

  I grab at him, fingers digging roughly into his flesh. Shoulders, back, thigh, glutes, indiscriminate, wanting only more, closer, faster. Seeking gratification, completion, release, the humming tension of energy imbalance between us almost audible, intolerable. With a fistful of his hair for leverage, I crush my mouth to his, kissing him fast and fierce.

  I trail my fingers over his cheek and pull back, but can’t see him, can’t see anything. I can only feel. His leg, shifting. His touch, firm on my flesh. I slide a hand over his stomach to stroke my fingers along the length of his cock, warm and responsive to my touch. And then Leonard impales himself on me, tight wet heat engulfing me to the hilt. I feel his tension, his stillness, hear the hiss of sound from his lips—pain or pleasure I don’t know; not even his aura, swirling over, through, around mine, gives a hint—as I groan and arch upward, driven by pure instinct and sensation.

  He grunts, mutters something. No idea what, because just as I’m about to stop, to gather my wits and scattered brain cells enough to ask if he’s okay, he starts moving, sliding, deliberate, languid. It overwhelms me, skin stroking skin, heat searing an unforgettable path along my nerves. He taps me, dragging on my chi as he sucks on my tongue.

  And on and on, until I’m lost, hurdling from one sensation to the next in a free-fall toward orgasm, trapped between the ecstatic friction of his movements and caresses and the slide of energy flowing back and forth between us. Tapped into me, but not feeding. He just holds the connection open. Letting me feel all of
him, emotions and sensations swirling into my aura, feeding my arousal and flooding me with more than I can hope to process. His skin warm beneath my touch, muscles hard and solid as I slide my hands over his thighs, hips, fingers digging into flesh encouraging, before moving on to explore his flanks, ribs, follow the ridge of his spine.

  I close my eyes, only to force them open when the pinpricks of white light threaten to make me dizzy. His hands frame my face, lips brushing mine as he holds my gaze, body curving against me. As if he has all the time in the world to give me the most mind-blowing orgasm he can manage. His yellow eyes are still glazed, half-hooded. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I feel his cheek press against mine, hear his soft grunt in my ear as his body tenses in my arms.

  Energy slams into me with the force of a howling winter gale and even less finesse. I gasp, breath escaping my lungs in a whoosh, and Leonard’s arms twine under and around me as the spasm of his orgasm and the flood of energy continue unabated.

  “I can’t . . . stop it,” he grunts, arms clenching tight with a strength that shocks me.

  Wave after wave of chi surges into me, searing my skin, buoying my orgasm and drawing it out further and further and on and on until it overwhelms my senses.

  Then darkness takes over, nothingness blacker than black.

  Smooth heat radiates into me from everywhere at once. The familiarity of the sensation is relaxing, soothing away any trace of alarm. I take a deep breath, the weight atop me creating an uncomfortable, yet welcome, resistance. Limbs tangled with mine. I curl my fingers into the soft silk of hair, buried deep and cradling Leonard’s head where it rests on my chest. It feels like there’s nothing but cotton between my ears. Sandpaper shrouding my eyes instead of eyelids.

  I smell dragon’s blood and . . . well, sex. And that unique tang that tingles the nose after a large transaction of energy. Like gunpowder at a firing range. Didn’t hang around long enough to catch a whiff of it when he stripped that other lyche.

  Gaia save me from myself. Leonard just thoroughly fucked my brains out. Or . . . should it be the other way around? Probably best to classify it a mutual thing and leave it at that. My body heats at the memory, nerves tingling. I look down at him, breathing softly, each exhale stirring across my skin, warm and moist. Mixed feelings surge through me, tenderness and a thread of horror. I don’t want my emotions tangled up in this mess. But it’s already too late.

  Too late for many things. Details are vague, blurred by the energy craze I got caught up in. But he and I, we have a few things to talk about. Later. I drape my free arm over his back, feeling the combination of the heat in his skin, the satiated calm of his aura. He moves, mumbles a few wordless sounds, his arms tightening their embrace a fraction.

  Despite the layers of shadow blanketing the room, the black light highlights whorls of paint decorating the spaces between the heavy rafter beams in the ceiling. Abstract strokes and splashes in variegated shades of gray, contrasting, blending, melting from one hazy suggestion of shape to another.

  The length of Leonard’s body twitches. He shifts his cheek against my skin. I look down at him again to find half-hooded eyes studying me.

  “I’m sorry about that.” His voice is a rasp against my ears. I watch the curve of his throat move as he swallows. “I lost control of it. The energy.”

  “How long have I been out?” All I recall is everything fading away.

  He curls his mouth into a smile. “I don’t know.” His brow furrows. “I think I passed out when you did.”

  I trail a fingertip along his lips. He shifts against me, and the sensation of warm skin is so intimate, so tactile, so casually executed, that heat floods through me all over again. The yearning is every bit as strong as it was before. I want to roll him over and slide inside him. Pin him down and fuck him senseless. And then let him return the favor.

  Leonard slides his hand up my side, over my chest, a languid, deliberate journey to my face. His fingertips play over my lips, mirroring me. His face is mere inches from mine, gaze sharp, intense.

  “You didn’t seem very surprised.”

  “By what.” Purposeful evasion. I know exactly what he’s referring to. Wasn’t a virgin before I came in here with him—far from it. No, I’m not a professional whore, not like that, but I’ve definitely had a few—botched—attempts at relationships. I watch his eyes flick back and forth, studying my expression, trying to read me.

  “Humans usually register some level of reaction or negative response when . . . confronted with the true nature of a lyche the first time.” He furrows his brow, his expression so utterly serious and formal it makes my throat tickle with the urge to laugh.

  I shrug my shoulders, enjoying the slick feel of the sheets against my back. It’s difficult to believe he didn’t notice anything unusual about my physiology—but then, to describe both of us as thoroughly distracted would be an understatement. “I’m not human. You said so yourself. Mutt. Right?”

  It’s nice to think I’d fit in so easily, even if he hasn’t yet grasped just how well I would. More than nice, actually, since it’s the one thing that’s eluded me thus far in my life. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Is it truly acceptance he’s dangling just within my reach, and what’s his ulterior motive? Everyone—but a lyche especially—always has one.

  But he didn’t seem to have any, aside from the need to flood my body with his excess energy. Perhaps that’s all this was to him. Necessity and nothing more. It felt like more to me. But maybe that’s because I want it to be something more.

  His features relax, tension bleeding from his body to rest heavily against mine. “Maybe.” I can almost see the gears turning in his brain. “Depends on what you mean by that.”

  Maybe I really did fuck his brains out?

  I can’t even begin to figure out how to frame an explanation that involves words. Rolling my head to the side, staring off across the room at nothing, is easier. “What I mean is . . . I know the difference between fucking a woman and fucking a man.” I trail my fingers down his side, and shift my gaze back to meet his when his body tightens against mine. I have to swallow a few times to loosen my throat enough to get the rest of the words out. “Never fucked a lyche before, but if I had, maybe I would’ve realized before now that I’m more lyche than human.”

  He stares at me, entire body still, unmoving. I think he might even be holding his breath, or something. I wonder if his heart’s stopped beating, too.

  Dark rooms and overwhelming lust have certain advantages. Less exploration. Easier to keep secrets. My heart is suddenly hammering against my ribcage, painfully, a prisoner pounding futilely on the walls of its cell. I attempt to disentangle from him, to get out of the bed, find my clothes, gripped by the overwhelming need to escape. I’ve had this conversation with others before. Many a time. It’s never gone well.

  “Black, wait.” He doesn’t restrain me, shifting away to avoid my thrashing limbs, but his hand on my thigh anchors me. Aura swelling to encircle, embrace, unencumbered. I couldn’t keep him out if I tried. And Gaia, the feel of his energy laced with mine is heady. It soothes away the panic, the sickly hues in my aura, with a calm like nothing I’ve ever known. I hesitate, taking a deep breath before turning to look at him. “You mean . . .” He shakes his head, grip tightening on my thigh. “Come back here.”

  He pushes himself up off the bed, leveraging his weight between the anchoring grip on my leg and his hand splayed in the tangle of bed sheets, until he’s close enough for me to feel his gentle exhale against my cheek. Hand on his neck, I angle my head and brush my lips over his, close my eyes and thread my aura through his. Not the conversation I intended to have at all, but the unrestricted welcome he gives, so utterly open, without the faintest hint of resistance, leaves me in awe.

  Leonard’s hand moves from my thigh, and he grabs me, rolling back down into the bed with me sprawled atop him. His expression is calm, open, when I brace my arms by his shoulders and look down at him. The feel
of his skin against mine, our auras tangled, translucent hues of blue and purple and veins of yellow swirling along the periphery of my vision, is more soothing and welcoming than sexual. Without the tension of the energy imbalance, the sympathy resonates between us in a muted thrum, synchronicity that makes him feel like an extension of me.

  He rolls his hips against mine, fingers digging into my back. Not foreplay, just a simplistic awareness, acknowledgement. Acceptance. “All lyche are hermaphrodites.” He studies me, as if braced to gauge my reaction, to absorb a violent outburst. “Your sire was. And yes, it makes you more lyche than human.” He slides a palm up the length of my spine, pulling me down against him, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Which explains a great deal about your long-standing prowess as a chi-thief, and this . . . aural sympathy between us.”

  I arch my brows in disbelief, struggling to focus on his words past the tactile sensation of his body, perfectly aligned with mine.

  “It also presents a number of issues.” His grip tightens on me fractionally, and hooks a calf behind my knee, locking me against him.

  “Does it.” I deliver the non-question deadpan and gyrate my hips, hooding my eyes at the feel of friction. At the pulse of arousal that answers, from his aura and his body. Not in the mood for issues.

  Leonard’s yellow eyes become slivers, and his fingers dig into my ass. “Does what?”

  The laughter slips out of me, and I rest my forehead against his shoulder for a moment before giving up and collapsing onto him.

  His hands wander over my skin in languid, aimless circles, then his chest lifts me on a deep inhale. “Nice distraction technique you have there.”

  I hum a noncommittal response. Much as I’d prefer to avoid it, he’s right. The issues will still be there, and they’re not about to go away. He has answers, too, for the questions that have plagued me for much of my life.

  The ones my father should have been there to answer.