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This is it.
The blade in your hand shakily reflects the lamp on the nightstand, a warm aurora warping across the room. The deep orange slices through the pale walls, carving organic shapes as it waxes and wanes with the shadows. It falls over your nightgown as you sit astride your target, your chest heaving with adrenaline as the weapon in your hand dances with the buttons of his shirt.
Luke’s shirt.
He lays below you, his hands hovering over your hips, close enough that he could grab you and toss you off him in less than a second if he really wanted to. His eyes, a bright red from the flame of the night lamp or from the desire in his system — who’s to say anymore — dart up and down your body with fear and impatience.
This is it, you repeat mentally. This is it, so why is it so hard to just stab him?
After all, it’s fate. Fate had you born and brought up in a nobility known for slaying blood-sucking beasts, and fate had it that your closest friend, your childhood companion, the one who endured high society's standards and expectations by your side. . .
In your eight years apart, only fate would make Luke a vampire.
“Do it.” The honey-haired man under you speaks with conviction, but you can feel his tremors under your thighs. “Do it, you were trained for this purpose.” He’s not wrong. Luke knows that each rule you followed as a child, each doctrine engraved in your lessons as you grew, and each connection you made to this day is to enforce your family tradition. You are a vampire slayer, prominent and regal.
Luke is as well, technically. You wonder how much he suffered when he turned, those etched ideologies he was raised with battling his new form. He still refuses to divulge the details of his initiation, of what he went through those years away. All you know is that tonight, after a small cut appeared on your finger, the only man you’ve ever truly trusted had transformed — skin pale, fangs bright. Those coral eyes deepened into that textbook crimson, manic with lust. Bloodlust.
Unmistakable.
“How can I kill you, Luke?” you say, your voice breaking with pain. Your tears fall onto his chest, the flushed sliver revealed by the undone laces of his shirt, and you blearily watch them trail down the crevices of muscles behind the fabric. “How am I meant to kill you when I can not fathom the thought of losing you again? All those years . . . no visits, no letters, nothing. I believed you were . . . “
The words catch in your throat, colliding with a guttural sob. Luke’s eyes squint in pain, his breathing labored, “I know I abandoned you. Nothing I could say or do could ever . . . I could never remedy that fault. I can not fix what I committed. I should not be allowed to be with you, to see you once more, even under these circumstances.”
You know he means the last moments of his life, and you hate him for his greed. He wants you to be the reason for his end. He doesn’t get to choose his death . . . to die . . .
He continues, “You have been too good to me, forgiving me when I returned suddenly, not asking questions about my whereabouts. And finding out my sickness like this . . . “ His words slur as he croaks out his emotions, “I can not change any of this. I know that. The monster that I’ve become, that I am, does not deserve an ounce of your mercy. Kill me.”
“You want me to suffer more?” you groan, pushing the knife far enough that it indents his skin. “You are cruel, Luke. You are the only man on this planet who would force the one who loves you to hurt him.” Push. “How happy I was when you arrived at my door that night. I couldn’t stop hugging you, making sure you were real.” Against your better judgment, your hand flattens over Luke’s chest. His heartbeat thrums steadily against your palm, confirming his existence, and you smile as a salty tear streaks over your lips, “I am so glad you are merely alive. Even if you were sick, even if you would not explain your years away, I did not care. I do not care.”
“You feel it in your blood,” he argues, his fingers grazing the curve of your hips. “You feel your legacy, it is an inevitable part of you. There is no way to avoid it.”
Vampires are bad. Vampires are disgusting. The mere mention of them had always made your skin crawl — unearthly demons that fiend for you, leaving you for dead once they’ve had their fill.
But Luke isn’t like that. He can’t be . . . he doesn’t have that side to him. Even now, with his deadly glare and sickly pallor, you can feel his gentle worry washing over you. His words are laced with guilt when he’s done nothing wrong, when it’s not his fault. It’s never his fault. When will he realize that this is not who he is, that he doesn’t deserve this end?
You slide your hand up until you’re holding his jaw. His skin is cold and yet, his cheeks are red and glowing with anticipation. Slowly, you get close, just enough to count each thick eyelash, to find each line on his lips. He shivers when you speak, your breath hitting his skin, “Quiet, Luke. I told you, I do not care.”
When you kiss him, it’s bitter but so perfectly sweet. Luke tastes like fresh apples and spring, full of unexpected life. You fit your lips with his, your kisses melding into a soft, lilting form. He is not the monster you’re trained to see, could not possibly be evil with how he handles your body. He whimpers against your lips, speaking your name between each gasp for air.
You never realized how much you needed this. Needed him.
“Luke, do you remember what we studied as children?” you ask coyly, biting his bottom lip teasingly. “The different ways vampires make blood taste sweeter?” It’s lovely to see the gears work in his head, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he busies his lips with yours. He breaks apart and grips your arms as if he’s broken free from a trance, “I can not . . . not you, like this. I feel like I am at my limit, my love.” You can feel the endearment in your veins, in your limbs, in your skin. His love. It feels so fitting, even if this . . . this isn’t.
Goosebumps rise on your skin when he takes your face, cradling you softly. How hypocritical, you think as he brings you closer and tastes your tongue. Spit coats your kisses, your lips slick and puffy. He moves his lips lower, passing over your cheeks and lingering near your neck. You sigh when he drags his fangs over the slope of the vein, hesitant and teasing. His breathing slows as he watches your face.
“You are beautiful,” he strains. His hands work on the collar of your gown, pushing the linen off your shoulders as quickly as he can. Like he’s running out of time, like this moment will only last a few more seconds. “You are striking, god.”
You smile into his kiss as you tangle your fingers in his hair, “Are not vampires meant to be wary of religion or of a similar sort?”
“Sure, but who else would allow me to have you like this? I must pay my respects,” he counters. In a smooth movement, he flips you under him before trailing soft licks and kisses down your skin. You cradle his head as his hips grind against yours slow, sensually.
It’s too much.
You breathe his name as he makes his way down the center of your body. His mouth is hot as he maps your curves, your valleys, attentively feeling the dip of your navel with his teeth. Your nightgown crumbles in his hands, torn apart into scraps of soft linen, revealing your bare form. Normally, you’d have a moment of embarrassment, a moment where the mood dissipates for a second and you’d ground yourself. It doesn’t happen here — Luke sweeps you far above, his tender gaze trained on your reactions, keeping you afloat. There’s no need to be shy or hide behind disbelief when he’s guiding you, making sure you know that this is real. He is real.
Luke lifts one of your legs above his shoulders and lowers himself to your pussy. His eyes are nearly black, dilated with desire, and you groan as his teeth skate over your inner thighs. It tickles, but you’re too aroused to laugh or move. This view feels illegal.
And to you, it literally is. This shouldn’t happen between the two of you, but you still slip your hand into his hair and push him against your skin, “Bite me, Luke.”
He looks at you blankly, processing any possible hidden meanings behind your words. You stop him before his thoughts can spiral. “I know you admire me. Can you not smell my blood singing for you alone? Do you not want a taste?” Your words are meant to tease, but they come out as pleading and desperate. And Luke can’t resist that tone, even when he knows better.
Gently, he presses his fangs into your skin until it breaks, a sharp pain shooting through your leg. You whine as Luke shuts his eyes and bites deeper, his tongue licking the surrounding area soothingly. Blood trickles to his lip, where it catches and spills slowly. Your leg feels hot, the kind of heat when your limbs fall asleep, and in an attempt to remedy the sensation, you grip Luke’s hair roughly, “God!”
“Ngh!” Luke grunts as he pulls his face away. He looks crazed — his eyes wide and mouth smeared with blood. He tries to speak, but when he opens his mouth, he latches back onto your leg like a magnet, sucking and lapping up your wound. The buzzing in your leg feels better . . . feels good now. As if each lick soaks you with a layer of pleasure, building quick.
This isn’t bad. No, it’s nothing like what your parents warned you about. This feels like a drug, light and free and filled with a promise of an unimaginable release. You moan softly as Luke leaves a trail of hickies from the bloody mark, painting paths of bruises that circle around the puncture. His fingers travel over to your pussy, massaging your lower lips with caution before playing with the hood of your clit. The delicate sensation makes you shiver and shake, “Ooh, Luke, touch me.”
He obeys, moving lower and pushing two thick fingers into you. You gasp at the stretch, at the way his fingers run against your tight walls and curl up, prodding at plush curves of muscle, “Yes, there . . . “
“You are so wet,” Luke hisses, his words muffled against your skin. He adjusts his body so your legs spread wider, and with it, his fingers thrust deeper. Each slide of his knuckles — in and out, a steady motion — has you groaning his name louder and louder, followed by garbled cries and pleas. You can’t think straight: it’s as if Luke’s bite has rendered him with complete control of your pleasure, and he intends to push you in all the right ways. Every. Single. One.
“Let me worship you,” he whispers, dragging his fingers out of your sticky heat. Your pussy tightens at the loss of his touch, at the sound of a new venture. His lips sweep the thin layer of blood off his lips, and you’re suddenly aware of the amount of red on his teeth. Your thigh. It smells metallic and sickening and yet when combined with the sweet scent of sex, it is the most addicting flavor you’ve ever encountered. You love it.
Nodding, you hold Luke’s nape and urge him forward, sighing at the way his body naturally slides over you. His shirt, damp with cool sweat, plasters against your hot skin, and when he holds himself over you, you moan at from his necklace slipping over your skin. The metal key strikes you with a chill that goes straight to your pussy, sharp and overwhelming. “It’s hard to keep my language from being crude when you take your time,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He’s broad and muscular and firm in your hands.
Luke laughs breathily, moving one of his hands to his trousers and pulling apart the strings until his thin linen drawers come into view. He stretches it down, slowly unveiling faint blooms of auburn hair, followed by a girthy, wet head. His cock springs out onto your skin, and unlike the rest of his body, it is hot and pulsing with need. You groan when a small bead of precum glistens down the curve of his dick, following each vein down until it soaks into his skin. Have mercy.
He raises an eyebrow at you, noting your silence, “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I have never . . . ,” you gasp, eyes rolling back and closing when his head rests in the bend of your neck, “ . . . never wanted someone this much. I would do anything for you, Luke.” He groans in response before lowering to his elbows, cupping your face in his hands, and kissing you deeply as he rolls into you slowly. His mouth catches each of your moans as he pushes in fully, tasting your hisses as his hips meet your skin.
And when he grows within you, he swallows your cry.
“My darling,” he calls, his voice trembling as he draws back. “You feel so perfect. How did I arrive at this chance?” He thrusts back in before repeating the motion, slow at first. Your hands roam his body, bunching the fabric and watching it strain against his skin as he moves in you over and over. When your eyes lock with his, bright and red and vile, you bite your lip and arch up, “Bite my neck.”
Luke’s hips still, his brows dipping, “That is far too dangerous. I do not wish to hurt you.”
“I wish you to.” You drag his hand to your breast, coaxing his thumb to play with your nipple, “I want you to use me. Taste me. It feels strangely pleasant for me, you know.” The throbbing of your thigh is muted but still present, radiating a dull pleasure. You can’t fathom how it’d feel along your sensitive nape, so close to your lust-mottled brain.
You push him back when he tries to argue, just enough so he slips out of you and allows you to turn onto your stomach. Luke falls back into the rhythm seamlessly: his hands bracket and lift your hips up, and you salivate when his large hands knead your ass. His cock slides along the entrance of your pussy before entering again, accompanied by his strained gasp, “You . . . ah, mmm . . . !“
Then, his chest is on your back, his shirt damp and thin, and his mouth is on your shoulder, kissing sprouts of adoration. You push back against each of his thrusts, grinning at the sound of skin smacking skin. He feels so good, so right like this. He is the missing piece of your puzzle, the final nail in your coffin. There’s no going back now, no matter how much you’ll regret this later.
You won’t regret this later. Luke sinks his teeth into your skin, holding you in place when you weaken. His mouth is magic — when he kisses and licks your blood, each nerve in your body hums with bliss. You’re not sure whether it’s his bite or his dick, two poles of arousal pulling pleasure through the contours of your body. You feel him in each string of saliva, each bead of sweat, each harsh thrust in you. Luke, your brain is consumed with him, with Luke, Luke . . .
“More, I need more,” you beg. It’s hard to tell what’s happening; your vision is fading and your legs are going numb alarmingly quickly. Luke can tell you’re close from the way you squeeze him, the way your voice trails into breathy moans, and he keeps his own high at bay until you slip over the edge. Your orgasm is hot and quick, an inferno that catches each inch of your skin and burns bright. Luke’s cock drives you further, coaxes you to teeter on the edge of pain until he presses against you tightly and cums, thick and fast, “Thank you, thank you. So perfect, shit.” It’s the last thing you hear before lightheadedness blankets your mind, obscuring your senses.
All goes dark.
Luke heaves as he slides out of you, blushing at the trail of cum trickling out of your pussy. He feels bad about you passing out because while he’d love to attribute it to his sexual skill, he knows it’s probably the blood loss that pushed you to unconsciousness. Combined with the adrenaline . . . Luke’s eyes narrow when he spots the blade you held against him earlier tossed beside the bed. Forgotten.
No matter how much you try to resist your history, it’ll always come back nastier. Luke knows what your destiny is, even after tonight. He heads into your porcelain bathroom, fetching a clean towel to wipe you down with and a glass of water to leave on your nightstand. A small part of him would like to be next to you when you awaken, to hear your thoughts and try to work out these . . . feelings with you.
But he knows better.