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How does he do it? Neither one of us actually needs to breathe, yet he still manages to take my breath away. I marvel at the sensation for a moment, feeling his lips pressed against mine, his mouth drawing the illusion of air from my lungs. My hands explore sharp planes and angles of musculature along his back and reach up to grip his skull, clutching fistfuls of hair between my fingers.
He’s moving against me, grinding his body against mine in slow languid circles. I moan, almost involuntarily, and arch myself into him, my hips rising and falling in time with his. Then he’s pressing my legs back against my chest and I feel him applying the slightly cold viscous liquid with one quick swipe of a finger. My body naturally resists him at first and he pushes a little harder, adds a little more force to the thrust until he feels me open for him and I welcome him inside.
Those who are less worldly in their understanding of these matters may scoff at this perceived submission on my behalf, calling it out of character, perhaps even abnormal. I can almost hear the cries of derision now, “Josef Kostan submits to no one.” And they would be right, but this is less about submission and more about acceptance. Don’t let appearances fool you, the dynamic is different here. It’s not dominance over submission, the master over the subordinate, unless I want it to be of course. I never submit to him, it’s not in my nature to do so. I accept him, willingly, as my equal.
“I want to take you down nice and slow.” I hear him whispering in my ear.
“And then come back up and fuck you hard.” I think, remembering a tongue in cheek piece of satire about the rising cost of gas prices. Strange the places your mind still manages to wander even as you’re losing yourself in a hum of pleasure.
I stifle a laugh and he raises himself up on outstretched arms and looks down at me for a moment, a slightly bemused expression on his face.
“Never mind.” I smile and shake my head dismissively, then reach up to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back down towards me. Loose strands of his hair brush against the side of my face as he buries his head next to mine and my hands clutch at his slightly sweat dampened shoulders. My fingers dig into the muscular flesh there as he picks up the pace and drives us both towards the inevitable conclusion, his hand urging me on with him.
So much for taking it slow, not that I’m complaining.
And then there’s that delicious moment where we’re both perched on a knife’s edge, feeling the culmination of all that heat and friction concentrated into one perfect moment of pure pleasure, where neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins.
He moans my name then and I can feel him spilling into me, falling into an abyss of pleasure as he snarls and sinks his fangs into my neck.
I fall with him and he wraps his arm around my shoulder and holds me to him, giving me a safe space to fall apart. I let out my own vocalisations of release and feel myself contract around him, my own fluid spilling out over his hand as I bite into the flesh at the top of his shoulder and draw blood into my mouth, tasting warmth, tasting him.
“How was it?” I hear him ask a few moments later. It's the same question, without fail, every single time.
“Great,” I answer, accepting his need for reassurance, “wonderful, all that good stuff. I love you”
That last part I don’t ever say out loud. Tomorrow we’ll go back to pretending everything’s just as it was before, like we always do. He’ll come up with the usual round of self justification for the closeness we occasionally share, it’s a Vampire thing, helping a buddy out, one less moment of loneliness in our immortal lives, and once again we’ll banter and bicker and press each others buttons and drive each other crazy even as we grudgingly respect one another and declare ourselves the best of friends.
As for me, I’ll go back to watching him from afar. Watching, and waiting, and biding my time as I continue to feel that old familiar ache, whenever I’m near him.