The Night Inside

In this moment, what I want seems perfectly clear, even if it makes no rational sense. I lift one hand from his shoulder, sliding it into his long hair, I'm surprised by it's softness, like strands of silk, and it's my turn to take hold. I'm relieved that he doesn't resist when I pull his wet mouth down again to my waiting neck.

My decision.

I close my eyes again, but the moment lasts only a few seconds. I feel the touch of his tongue on my neck, with the same little chill as he settles his mouth on my skin and continues to drink. A moment later he snaps his head back, a look of anger in his face. His lips pull back in a snarl I feel a twist in my stomach when I see just how sharp his teeth are.

"What is this?" His voice is weak, unused, little more than a hiss. I half expect to see dust. "You think you can trick..."

I need to shut him up. I'm not ready to explain, not yet. I don't have the words. Shit, I barely even know how to explain it to myself. For a moment I panic, uncertain about what comes next and, before my roiling mind fully comprehends what I am doing, I place my lips on his.

This decision made from sheer panic, to quieten him using my own mouth, seems to work. His lips are firm and cool against mine and he doesn't respond, but neither does he pull away, and at least he is quiet. I have a momentary thrill of pride that I can, after all, surprise him. I taste my own blood on his lips: slippery, with a flavour of metal. Is it my imagination or do his lips part ever-so-slightly when I use my tongue?

I don't stop. Taking his silence as consent. I use my mouth softly on him, caressing him with my lips, tasting him with my tongue. I tell myself that I am playing for time, distracting him while I think of something to say. But then I feel a sharp electric thrill run through my body as I feel his arms tighten around me and his lips part just enough for me to feel his tongue with mine. The feeling travels like a flowing current from my chest to between my legs. I wonder, is he enjoying this?

And then he starts to kiss me back.

He seems almost shy about it at first, uncertain. He didn't expect this, I know, but there is more: He is used to hunting, to taking. I wonder how long it has been since he experienced someone who was willing. Has he forgotten how it feels? How it's supposed to feel? I encourage him with my own mouth, my own tongue. There is pressure to my kisses now, a pressure he begins to return. Throughout it all I am aware of that cold hand pressed into the small of my back which now begins to move, slow circular explorations that travel delightfully down to the swell of my bottom. Bringing my hands to his face, I begin to caress his sharp angular features. His skin still feels unnaturally smooth to my touch, almost waxy. That, and the temperature of his skin, make it impossible for me to forget his true nature although it seems less important now that we seem to be sharing an entirely human experience.

He finally breaks the kiss and we meet each other's gaze. The crimson glow has faded to be replaced by a questioning stare in his pale eyes. He doesn't understand what's happening, but that's ok.

I know how this bit is supposed to go.

Again, he pulls me to him, and I let out a sigh as he buries his head into my neck. I prepare myself for the sting, but it doesn't come. The disappointment is as irrational as it is short lived. He is kissing me on my neck, tasting me. I let my head roll back as I feel the cool brush of his mouth on my taut skin. His hands become bolder, begin to traverse my body, discovering me, tracing out the shape of me under my clothes. His long fingers cup my breast and I feel the cold sink through to my nipple, which stiffens immediately, His touch is cold, and yet it sends a delicious warm pulse directly to my clit.

He is not gentle, and there is a clumsiness to his movements as he caresses and grips my body. It's as if he is trying to reassure himself that I am real, that I am solid. When he begins work on the buttons of my blouse, I rest my hand on his, stopping him. He still has a watchful, suspicious look about him and I can tell he is still far from convinced this isn't some form of treachery.

For the first time since we touched each other I find my voice. It is shaky and weak, but I make my intention clear as I take hold of his hand. "Come," I whisper. The doubt is still there, the fear, but he follows me as I take him by the hand and lead him through the rooms of the house towards my bedroom.

We go through my studio, even though it isn't on the way. We could take our time here, I know. I could show him my art, my paintings, my drawings, but he sees enough as we pass through, and there is only one room I want to be in now. His eyes scan the room as we pass. There are a few pieces of which I am quite proud, framed on the walls, and I see his eyes widen as we pass them. It took me quite a few attempts, but I think I finally managed to capture his image quite well. I want him to see them, and only him. I hope it will save me having to find the words to explain what I want. The painting of the two of us together is particularly vivid. I don't usually paint self-portraits, let alone nudes, but I found that this one came quite naturally to me although I may have overused the Alizarin Crimson, a red pigment that is particularly effective evoking the colour of blood.

I am very conscious of the warm trickle I can feel moving slowly down the skin of my throat.

We make it to my bedroom, and he waits on the threshold while I enter to turn on the bedside lamp. He hovers, uncertain. I can sense the battle raging within him: the hunger mixed with the very real suspicion that he is putting himself in danger. I'm not sure what I can say to reassure him, and I don't even want to try. He either wants this or he doesn't.

But I know what I want. I lack the confidence to hold his gaze while I strip, but I can feel his eyes on me as I quickly unbutton my blouse, letting it slip from my shoulders onto the floor. I should be taking my time, teasing him, but there has already been far too much of that from both of us. I move quickly, hoping to hide the way my fingers are shaking as they work on my clothing, making myself naked before him. I clumsily unzip my skirt and, it's while I am stepping out of it that I hear him take a step towards me into the room. He is wary, almost feral, as he enters, as if he knows he is making himself vulnerable, crossing a threshold.

I kick off my shoes and then it's time for my underwear to go. The room feels cold on my naked skin despite the warmth of the summer night outside. He seems to drain the warmth from everything. Perhaps this is something I will just need to get used to.

I kick my clothing to one side and stand there, naked. I resist the temptation to cover my breasts or to cup my hands in front of my groin. I want him to see me. Still he hesitates, one arm resting on the frame of the door, his body silhouetted against the light from the studio. His eyes glimmer faintly and I swear I can physically feel it as his gaze travels the length of my body. Slowly he raises one hand towards me. He is too far away to touch but the studio light behind him sends a grasping shadow crawling along the carpet floor, closing the distance between us. Looking down I see the clear outline of his hand rise up my body. As it passes the dark patch of curls between my legs I shiver with the perceptible change of temperature. His shadowed hand seems to claw at my breast, and I feel my body responding, my nipple hardening. I want very much to feel his hands upon me.

I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat from across the room as it seems painfully loud to me.

I raise my own hand in invitation, and I see the moment the decision is made by the way the crimson in his eyes seem to spark. He crosses the room in two long strides. His cold hands take hold of my face, one on either side, as he studies me. I meet his gaze even though my body shakes to be finally here.

He opens his mouth to speak but I shake my head, once more silencing him. Then, taking his hands with mine, I pull them from my face, down across my body. When they reach the swell of my breasts, he lets out a long slow breath. For a moment he holds still, then his hands tighten, and I moan with pleasure and relief. There is a different type of hunger in his eyes, one much more familiar to me, and I smile as I again feel his mouth on mine.

When I have dreamt about this moment, we have both been without clothes, but there seems no time for that now. Maybe he isn't ready to make himself so vulnerable as to be naked.

I find the strength to break the kiss and, pulling him by the hand, I bring him to the bed. He lies down next to me and begins again to explore my body. His touch is so cold I wonder how warm I must feel to him, how alive. His lips leave a red smear across the skin of my shoulder as he begins to taste my body with his mouth. He seizes on my nipple and I cry out as he catches it with his teeth. His hands are grasping now, clumsily describing paths of ice across my skin. I lie back, my arms around my head, allowing him access. It is as though he is tracing the contours of a long-forgotten but precious map.

How long has it been for him? I wonder. Has it been so long that this feels like the first time? His mouth descends on my other breast, taking the dark thorn of my nipple into his mouth. I squirm on the bed beneath him, gasping in pleasure and frustration. I long to reach for his trousers but I am wary of scaring him off. He is a wolf still, I remind myself, he doesn't trust me yet.

Instead, I close my eyes and lose myself in the feel of his hands on my naked body, the delicious chill of his strong fingers teasing and stroking, awakening a heat within me that is almost unbearable. His movements now are slow, reverential. His fingertips barely touching my skin as he describes patterns on my flesh, across the curve of my collarbone, my breasts, my flat stomach. Lower. It is as though my body is being explored by a carving of ice. As his frigid fingers tease apart the soft petals of my sex, I arch my back, crying out as he slides his finger into me.

God, I must feel like molten metal to him.

He is in no hurry; he takes his time. His fingers move inside of me and I am so ready for him, my body so willing.

Then he travels south, his mouth marking out a path to my navel before continuing downwards. As I feel his frigid breath caressing my pubic hair, I look down for the first time. I am surprised to see that his eyes have changed from crimson to a clear arctic blue. He holds my gaze for a long lingering second before lowering his eyes to study the most private part of me.

Withdrawing his fingers, his hands press on my thighs, parting my legs. I let out a long shivering gasp as I feel his fingers touch the swollen petals of my sex, pulling them apart. I feel his cold breath on my exposed pussy, and I have enough time to cover my eyes before he dips his head down and begins to taste me. It feels like a feast, a devouring; there is greed in the way he worships me, first using his tongue in one long lick across mile after mile of my spread cunt. Then there is a ravenous appetite in the way he presses his mouth between swollen, slippery lips, sucking and tasting my core. As he finds my clit, I bite into the flesh of my palm, stifling my moans, helplessly writhing beneath him.

I was so close before he even started, but when I feel a sharp tooth catch my swollen clit it is too much and I explode right then and there, my release coming out as almost a scream. I'm not even sure he notices. It's only when, giggling, I beg him to stop, that he raises his head. From the uncertain look on his face I realise laughter is something he has forgotten about as well.

I gesture for him to come to me, but he hesitates. He remains on his knees at the foot of my bed, his mouth so close to me I can feel the cold night breeze of his breath and I feel the heat begin to rise between my legs. There is a question in his eyes, a request. There are no words, and it takes me a few heartbeats to understand him. He is a wolf still, and his other hunger has not gone away.

I nod my consent. "Ok," I whisper, parting my legs just that little bit more, preparing myself.

I feel a sharp thrill of alarm when he settles his mouth on the mound of my pubis. His bite is shallow, but the pain and ecstasy are enough to momentarily blot out the world. He takes only a little, moaning with pleasure as he drinks, and there a strange peaceful look on his face as he begins to pull away.

I, however, am far from sated; I want more. Grasping him by the lapels I pull. He crawls up my body and I sense the fire beginning to return to his eyes. I help him with his clothing, only the important parts, the buttons of his trousers. I was unsure whether this was a need he would have but, when I feel his sex in my hand, I see that it is quite normal; cool to the touch, of course, but he is hard and long and his head shines like polished marble and I am more than ready for him.

I guide him into me, and he enters in one long movement and his cock feels so very cold as it enters my own wet heat. He lifts himself up on his arms, his long hair falling around us like a curtain of ice. His eyes are closed, and he stays that way for a long moment, not moving, his face a beautiful alabaster statue, lost in the sensation of being inside me.

He begins to move, pulling himself almost out of me before sliding back in. He's remembering, I think, he's remembering what it's like to make love to someone. His next thrust has a little more force behind it, and it drives a gasp from me. He opens his eyes and looks down at me and, my god, is that concern in his eyes? In response I wrap my legs around his waist, curl my arms up around his shoulders. For the second time I find my voice and it is less than a whisper. "Please," I say, " don't be gentle."

He takes me like that, on my back, in my bedroom, while the whole world slumbers outside, and he takes his time. His cock still feels as cold as iced water but that does little to quell my own heat. My body is bathed in sweat and I can feel it soaking into his coat. The presence of his clothing is maddening to me: the material course and rough against my smooth flesh, it's weight heavy.

I wonder what I feel like to him: warm, alive. I feel another orgasm bubbling up inside me and I realise I will get there before he does. I cling on tighter, my mouth to his ear. His thrusts are harder now, stronger than what I'm used to, but I ride with him, and then it's here and I can't stop coming, even after I burst through the one blinding pinnacle there is another wave to catch me and buoy me up. I can't even draw breath.

There is a fierce glint of scarlet triumph in his eyes and then he stiffens, and I swear I can feel him emptying himself into me, his mouth open as he groans, utterly inhuman; heartstoppingly beautiful.

Afterwards, I am shaking, weak in the afterglow, but I have enough strength to finally help him out of his clothing. His body is muscled and lean and heavily scarred. We hold each other for a long time beneath the bedclothes, not talking, listening to the night and the sound of our own breathing. Neither of us, I think, are at all sure about what should happen next.

It is only after we are both naked, holding each other skin to skin, that I offer him my throat again. "Just a little," I whisper, and he doesn't argue, although he lowers his head to my breast. Again the sound of tearing skin, the pain, followed by the sweet warmth of pleasure. I wonder if he ever stops being hungry.

Afterwards, after a long silence, I finally find the strength to speak. "Are you ok?" He pauses before he answers, his voice still sounds weak from misuse. "I had forgotten," he whispers. "I had forgotten so much." His face is serious as he studies me. "Why did you not invite me in?"

"If I had, would any of this have happened?". He thinks for a moment, before shaking his head. "I was scared," I say. "And more than that. I wanted you to want me. I didn't want to make it too easy. Too easy for you to forget me." My voice shaking a little. I can't believe how nervous I still am considering what we have just done. Our hands are moving again, tracing the contours of each other's bodies. "Would you like some more?" I whisper.

We again make love, this time with me on top. As I climax for maybe the fourth time that night I throw my head back, my hand caressing the long expanse of my neck. He accepts the invitation.

He takes very little and, afterwards, we talk. Locked in each other's arms. I learn his name, and a little of his past; I tell him about my life, my art. I experience a twinge of jealousy when I hear him describe how he had fed from Sarah after watching her leave me the note. I ask him whether he enjoyed her, but he doesn't seem to understand the question.

"That was different," he says.

The night passes so quickly. The first warmth of the sun spills into the room through the window and I sense him stiffen. In a second the feral hunter is back, sensing a trap. I smile at him, kiss him softly, before rising from the bed. I still feel his gaze as a physical caress as he watches me walk naked over to the window. I like it when he watches me, I always have. As for me, I am sure I will never grow tired of looking at him. He lies on the bed, arms behind his head. The first time I have ever seen him relaxed. The scars across his body are complex and fascinating. I look forward to painting him.

I look out of the window at the outside world, just beginning to stir into life. There are people in the streets already, on their way to work, I imagine. Have they any idea what they share this world with?

With a smile, I press a switch on the wall by the side of the window and thick dark blinds begin to descend with a low hum. They were expensive, costing me most of my savings, but I have been told they are particularly good at blocking out natural light. One day I will tell him that I bought them the day after I saw him beneath the bridge all those months ago, but not yet.

I make my way back over to the bed, sliding my naked warmth between the cold sheets. I wonder if I will ever get used to the unnatural chill of his body. I hope not. Smiling, I take his cock into my warm mouth, and he stiffens instantly. There will be time for talking later, and I will make sure he never gets too hungry, but for now, the hunt is over. I have denied myself for so long...

And I am ravenous.