Thirst Ch. 04

Three nights later

Monroe was disgusted with herself for letting this happen again.

The rain tacking hot and greasy against the glass distorted her view of the oily, meandering Red Rock River, its obsequious trail through Lowtown and out into the sea a rush that mirrored the thrumming vitality that thundered through her veins...a warmth not even the rich, substance-heavy blood of Ashland's mortal residents could provide. Whether taken through guile, diplomacy or merely as the spoils of a fight, it was her secondary obsession (or so she'd tell herself), an unsophisticated and brutish thirst that was merely a fact of her unlife.

Her first (as she told herself) was the Cause, for it transcended both life and death in that it decided the nature of their lives and unlives...and what was more important than the rights of her fellow Kindred?

Certainly not this...tawdry affair. This forbidden, utterly perilous dalliance that would spell disaster if it were to get out to any of the sides in the barely-restrained conflict that defined unlife in The City. Her eyes resolved his reflection in the tinted glass...the cocky, overconfident bastard.

"I know that look," he purred at her in that low, thrumming baritone that seemed to run from her lower belly up to her diaphragm. "You're either getting all pissed at yourself, or ready for round two."

Both, really she thought, frustration and desire clashing like their opposing natures should have. Even flushed as she was with his bestial essence - his crimson blood pumping through her heart and his white seed trickling down her inner thigh - she wanted more. Usually after an encounter like this she was satisfied, filled and ready to assert the rights of Los Siervos to the Overseer Committee, and those thoughts filled her head with urgency but they were overshadowed by the impression of the things they'd just done.

The way his teeth had dragged down her hip skillfully, tongue sliding along the seam of her crotch until he began to work at her node of pleasure, holding her open as he licked and sucked, and ohhh how she'd writhed and groaned at his touch...

"Neither," she lied in a sharp voice meant to pop his confidence. Throwing her gold-clasped, long braids over her shoulder, Monroe looked at him with cold disdain.

That was a mistake, of course...looking at him head-on brought the source of her most recent addiction into clear view, and it was an effort to turn her head away from him as she strode for the cheap motel room bathroom. The object of her desire - little more than an animal, a ravening predator in the night who just howled pretty - reclined comfortably on the loveseat they'd stained and defiled, fingers folded behind his head. He knew he was pretty and it was in his nature to show off with his dark, come-hither eyes, the sculpted magnificence of his body - seriously, who'd taken a hammer and chisel to his torso like that? Her gaze was pulled infuriatingly down his lower stomach, like gravity toward his loins; further taunting her were those stupid Apollo's Belt lines, or...what did Samara call them? - right, 'cum gutters'. At once disgusting and utterly hot.

Mercifully, a dark blue bedsheet was thrown over his hips, draped over to keep him 'modest' but even then she could see the impression of his shaft slung across his thigh, the shiny material outlining the shape of his crown and...that extra bit, the piercing that, in part, made sex with him such a wild sensory experience.

Making sure he saw that every step was cold and powerful, not sexy or beckoning, she left. "I'm getting out of here, and we're never doing this again , Mizrah."

Monroe flicked the bathroom light on and closed the door loudly, palms on the countertop as she breathed unnecessarily...her body hadn't required oxygen for almost a decade, but here she felt light-headed like she hadn't in so long. The ritual imitation of life was a zen ritual that pulled her focus from the overload of her senses, and she stared herself down in the mirror, like she was trying to scare a pesky neonate.

She didn't put her energy into looking sexy like so many of the others did...it wasn't part of her hunt, although she certainly considered herself worth looking upon. Strong, like the leader of a revolution should be, even if she could afford a couple inches of height. Monroe's hair hung around her head in braided, many colored, gold-ringed disarray that any of her kind would immediately recognize as bed head. The defined, powerful muscles in her arms moved like steel cables beneath her teak-dark skin as she worked her hair into a braid. She stopped what she was doing, looking at herself with her hands raised up.

Monroe's body was sleek and muscular, covered in scars she'd accumulated during her living years. Her breasts were firm, each the size of a large orange, and to her irritation her small, round dark nipples were still hard. Her waist cinched inward waspishly, glittering diamond in her navel and a mess of street tattoos running up her right flank...names of friends and family lost, symbols of home known generations ago.

Currently nailmarks were fading on her hips where he'd held her in their embrace; a short thatch of dark, curly hair on her mons still gleamed wet with the shared mess of their intercourse, and she couldn't help but find her golden eyes drawn to a hot pearl of the stuff dripping downward. The prominence of her clitoris, a pink, round bead that still poked proud and hard between her thighs, tingled at its warmth and with a sheepish glance at the door, she slid her fingers down over it, over the swell of her lips and pulled them away. She gazed at the tendrils of gooey, thick white sticking between them, and Monroe's thoughts were drawn back, involuntarily, to what they'd done...especially the way his warm, crimson life had flowed down her throat.

She'd chosen to feed at the moment of his climax, when she thought he'd be most vulnerable but the experience had been overwhelming for the both of them. Monroe's large, serious eyes closed as she slid her hands back up her hips, her mind slipping back easily into fantasy as the moorings of reality flowed tantalizingly away. It would be terribly easy, utterly irresponsible to just go out there, smile his way wordlessly, and lie back to show him the mess they'd made together; like a bull drawn to the flutter of pink, wet silk she'd have him. It'd worked before...but instead her hand twisted the valves on the shower, letting the water flow as hot as it could before stepping in.

Generic brand hotel shampoo and soap greeted her, and her nails scrubbed at her skin fiercely to try and remove any trace remains of his scent but it wouldn't be that easy. Like when a car light passed her by, its trail leaving a green and purple band in her vision, her dalliance with the man in the other room left a similar impression across her thoughts. Certain of the Syndicate's members could read such things, like inky messages in the eddies of her subconscious.

She could hear him rising from the loveseat, overtuned hearing and feeling catching every footfall as she washed away the outward evidence of their coupling, doing her best to ignore him. "I don't get why you're so angry every time we do this," his voice called to her playfully from beyond the bathroom door. "It's not like I'm twisting your arm to get you into bed."

"Nuh-uh, mmm-mmm. Nope, don't even start that shit," she warned him beyond the shower curtain and the door that she'd 'forgotten' to lock. "You're clear on exactly what you're doing, and the risk you're taking with your own damn sorry skin. That's what I don't get," Monroe barked, and she knew it sounded lame.

"Same risk as you're taking." The door was opening, and soon he was in there with her, leaning against the frame as he closed it behind him. "Monroe Carter, leader of the rebellion, thought you'd be used to living dangerous...you losing your edge?" His arms were crossed over his chest, confident as he could be. Didn't he understand the danger they were in, spending time with each other like this? Surely, he wasn't so messed up in the head as to find some sort of thrill in such risk-taking like she was; was it arrogance or self-loathing to presume nobody was as out-of-their-minds as she was?

"It ain't the same - god damn, you think playing the fool is cute or somethin'? It ain't bad enough you go and get me hooked like some mothafuckin' dealer," she clenched her fists as she began to rip into him, "what if I took too much from you again? Hmm?" Monroe pointed, jabbing a fingernail against the shower curtain at him. "What if you didn't get up, or what if some, I dunno, crazy Lupine self-preservation instinct kicks in and you go ape-shit? One of us would end up dead, the other would soon follow and there'd be war in our halls again." She knew it wasn't a guarantee that she'd make it out if one of them lost control; she'd stood her ground all through the history of the Uprising and staked more than one vampire who'd claimed to be all but cloistered safely with power. Never a Wolf, that was the job of Enforcers, and even if she was confident she could take one...

Mizrah was another story. He also had a reputation for being dangerous, and like a fool girl raunchy for a bad boy, she found it distressingly magnetic. "If I'm not worried, you shouldn't be either babe. You know, for someone leading a liberation movement, you really subject yourself to a lot of restriction...no wonder you're all pent up whenever we see each other."

Babe. Babe . The fucking audacity of calling her babe actually pissed her off. She wasn't his 'babe', and she felt her fangs press against her lips as the atavistic, shadowy part of her undead mind howled for fulfillment. It wanted more, more, ever more from both of them . "Fuck. You." She pulled the shower curtain open, glaring at him as water flowed down her shining, wet skin. "You are fucking with my life . Do you hear me? I got people relyin' on me, and nuh-UH!" Monroe interrupted fiercely, refusing to break eye-contact as she shoved him roughly by the shoulder. "DON'T INTERRUPT! Your fucking garage band ain't the same thing at all, not at allmmmph ..."

He did, in fact, interrupt her, by stepping into the shower - her personal space, utterly disrespected - and silencing her with his kiss. Monroe hated that she loved it, and balled her fists up. Breaking her lips from his with an act of effort, and she wordlessly punched him in the chest. The impact of her knuckles on his wet, slightly ochre toned skin was a deep sound she felt in the same place as his voice. Her anger neither deepened nor receded, although the sound of his breathing and her own desire overcame the nattering of her judgment as her fingers opened, unable to resist touching him, giving in to his warmth.

Her nails hissed as they dragged up the rough, dark stubble clinging to the sharpness of his jawline, feeling the nicks and scars of his violent life beneath. With his wrists linked at the small of her back, she gave in and drew closer so that her hips were pressed against his. "Why d'you do this to me?"

Her thumb brushed along the corner of his lips...Monroe liked Mizrah's wide, smiling mouth. "Don't forget, you made the first move," he reminded her.

"Not true at all, ya'll rolled on up to me like some Basra Cassanova, cocky-ass fool smirkin' like you the next King of Rock," she answered flatly but she was gazing into his eyes by now and any act of resistance was reduced to halfhearted jibes and barbs at best. Yusuf Mizrah had a stare she could get lost in; deep set, his eyes were a natural fit for the aquiline, desert sharpness of his nose. His irises were such a deep shade of coal black it was hard to distinguish them from his pupils. Ringed and flecked with amber, they reminded her of the flames she and all her kind had come to fear; but rather than give in to the self-preservation instinct of El Miedo Rojo , she hovered near the warmth of his firelight. "We're not s'posed to be doin' this Yusuf," she repeated, but her voice's edge was blunted and gentle, breathy against his lips.

She kissed him anyway, spreading her fingers across the roughness of his cheek and dragging her nails down the middle of his back. Monroe could feel the individual muscles, coiled and tight like steel cables, moving as she felt his touch along her lower back, finding the firmness of her posterior. Monroe gave in to desire, curling her leg around his hip so she could bring the studded underside of his pillar and slick it messily between her lips. Ffffffuck and her body shook with the added stimulation of his frenum ladder, painting him with her lust.

In the shower he was so warm - even in The City's eternal heat she managed to feel like she was on the receiving end of a clammy northerly wind. The exception was when her belly was full of a mortal's blood, or when she was near this man...this accursed, wonderful beast. As she made a quiet, involuntary sound of excitement at the way their tongues met against the other's fangs, her senses - already unnaturally stimulated by the Turnskin blood she'd just drank from his veins - pulsed warmly in tune with the rush of his heart.

"There's nobody but us here," he whispered against her lips, and the last bastion of her willpower shuddered and crumbled.

---

In the furnace of his mind, thought gave way to biological imperative as it often did on the Hunt, in the heat of combat or in the arms of a mate.

Hunt. Run. Bite. Claw...Thrust. Suck. Grab. Fuck. Streams of contemplation ran together, flowing in ferocious unison like the wetness of her arousal, the viscosity of his cum, his blood pumping from his jugular vein and over her tongue...hard to distinguish one from the other anymore. The primal rhythms of his mind moved with the crescendo of his hips; no howls of berserker fury in the night, just the steady, wet percussion of fierce lovemaking and the accompaniment of wordless moans. What words did come through penetrated the hazy fog of his lust, only to drive him further to rut.

" - take this fuckin' condom off, why the hell are you wearing it anyway? I want to feel all of you, mmmm...! - "

" - don't stop, nnngh, NNNGH I can take it, you don't have to treat me like some weak little bitch! FfffFFFFUCK AAAAGH - "

" - want you to cum in me, do it - "

His vision had been flooded with light, colorless flashes and impressions across his vision as he gripped the curve of her ass, her legs bracketed over his hips, riding his cock deep as he would go. The visceral intensity of the moment caused time to blend together; he exhaled harshly against her shoulder, wolven canine teeth snapping together as her own dainty, elegantly sharp fangs once again pierced his throat and she sipped his blood. He was unable to hold back as tingling, all-consuming warmth and pleasure soaked his brain in a haze; with a harsh sound that was somewhere between a lion's quaking utterance and a masculine grunt of release, he felt the first pump of his hot cum gush within her.

It was unlike any pleasure he'd ever experienced, like she was trying to milk his soul from the base of his manhood, gulping it greedily up into her lifeless womb. The Kiss was addictive, he'd heard, but...after everything that'd happened in Chicago, Mizrah just didn't care. The future, the past, the present were all Cursed. Everything he touched was Cursed...so what could possibly be worse off already than one of the Damned? She moaned as she drank, the contractions of her orgasm timed to his - damn she was good. Better than any he could remember.

Sex was like eating, sleeping or breathing for Mizrah. A kind of necessity, but one that he sometimes sought with little consideration of breaking the routine. A Werewolf's existence was guided by predictable, reliable patterns and, despite being a Accursed Beast of protean nature, they usually didn't appreciate breaks in familiarity. For a thing like him, who lacked the predictability of a stable territory and the comfort of a pack, sex was a comfortable chore that filled in the gaps.

That changed with Monroe.

For a time she'd lain over him, feeling the constant warmth slowly draining from him, into her...a pleasant heat sink as she wrapped her slender, defined arms around his shoulders and pulled her fangs free from his neck. Swallowing down his blood, he felt her lips against his jaw, creeping closer to his. He was still deeply clutched within her, hard as iron with excitement even in post-orgasmic sensitivity. She let out a shaky "haaah" against his lips, the little ball-piercing through his tongue clicking against her teeth as he shifted the angle of his hips to slide within her.

"Mmmm, aaah, aaah-hah, okay Yusuf, okay aaaahhh god ..." she'd whispered, shivering in his embrace as he ground himself against her deepest places; electricity again as her cool, smooth hands held onto his shoulders. She lifted herself off his manhood, the ridge of his crown pulling against the nubbin of her pleasure.

For a time they just looked into each other's eyes...these things that shouldn't have been commiserating, let alone fucking each other. If the packs found out what he was getting up to, a lone Enkindled amidst their paranoid ranks, well...he'd seen what frightened Turnskins did to their own, and The City had only recently been purged in violence against the Dead. Still...common sense had always battled with rebellion in Yusuf Avimalek Mizrah's tumultuous heart.

His emotions were confused. He adored her, he desired her, and at once there was a predator's revulsion in the presence of a parasite...was that how she saw him? At once attracted, and repulsed by what must be an Accursed Beast? For now, perhaps not, as she moved her slender thumb across his lip, leaning her forehead forward against his and stroking his cheek. She looked down and closed both hands around his shaft between them, tsking in fascination. "It don't ever get old," she chuckled, pressing her lips together as she ran the tips of her fingers along his frenum ladder, over the ball clasp through the Prince Albert he'd gotten on a dare. The attention from a woman who'd alternately tried to push him away, led him on a chase, and hungrily devoured him was more gratifying than from any Thrall, or even another Firstblood like him.

For a moment...she looked like she was hovering on the edge of going for another round, which he was up for given the perks of his protean physiology, but then...he saw it, crystal clear in the gold of her gaze. The brilliant, amber cogs of scheming and second-guessing, of thinking one step ahead of her shadowy enemies and untrustworthy allies...she remembered her 'responsibilities' and got cold with him. There it was...the attitude, meant to scare him off.

She shoved off of him roughly, much stronger than she looked. He didn't deny that in the deep, primal part of his heart it was painful to be pushed away like that. She had a sinister, parasitic need for the blood of the living, and other addictive tendencies; he was similarly hooked on approval, love and attention (as well as the flesh of other Great Predators). Typical rockerboy sob story, compounded by the corrosive, reality-warping influence of The Curse. He pretended to feel nothing, watching her go.

Mizrah could very easily quantify just why he was so intensely attracted to her - in his eyes she was a more than ideal mate, at least when her tissues were flush with blood in picture-perfect imitation of life. Even when they weren't, however, she wasn't hideous like some deaders; a bit pale and cold, leering like a scavenger bird at him sometimes...her movements were a bit more like an animal's, but there was always so much energy. Monroe Carter wasn't a tall woman, about five foot four to his solid six. Her hair had been styled into a collection of eight braids, each a different color, descending down the middle of her back. Speaking of...