By Quon and Tom
7.
He heard a door open, but the sound came from elsewhere, from the
bedroom. He heard voices: Paul’s deep tones, and the light sleepy intonation of Will.
Carlos opened an eyelid, his pupil as dark as liquid jet. He watched Paul count notes
into the hand of the boy, watched him walk the boy to the door. He watched him
tremble in the doorway before stilling, turning, closing the door: closing himself in.
“Paul?” He walked into the lounge, towards his friend.
Paul’s steps were slow, walking to meet him, but his heartbeat raced. Carlos
could taste the panicky rush of his blood in the air, crimson electricity radiating from
his flesh. He tried, tried so very hard, not to stare at the turn of his neck and instead
watched Paul’s smooth lips as he spoke.
“Just…promise me…”
“With all my heart, Paul…”
Carlos kissed him and Paul kissed back, with his own surprising hunger.
Carlos steadied his urge and resolved to make the moment last, to taste Paul with
lingering, languid patience, giving as much pleasure as he received.
Sipping at saliva, he realized he could taste Paul there: the animal, carnal
essence of him in the dark sweet moisture of his mouth. Paul’s tongue flickered,
fenced with his own, tasting Carlos as he himself was savored like the finest wine.
Carlos lifted his lips, licking the soft skin of Paul’s face with a feline tongue, tasting
now the city streets, the cool night air, the sharp flavor of the skinniest sheen of
nervous perspiration. Carlos rubbed his nose in Paul’s hair, smelling the charred soot
of a pack of cigarettes, smelling shampoo, the soft pale smoothness of smoke and
soap.
He couldn’t resist. His lips skipped over his cheeks, his chin until they could
press a tremblingly chaste kiss to the quiver of Paul’s pulse, throbbing beneath the
stretch of his pale skin. Carlos stayed like that for several moments, counting the
beats of Paul’s heart as they shuddered against his lips, flushed red with hunger.
“Just a sip...”
Paul cried out, a small anxious sound. He felt a scratch, sharper than a razor
blade, and then the rhythmic lick of Carlos’s tongue. The sensation was fearful, the
soft suck of lips delicious. Paul felt himself slipping, slipping, with only the strong
cradle of Carlos’s arms keeping him on his feet. Fingers stroked his brow and his
hair. His eyelids fluttered, gently swooning shut. And then…it was all over. Carlos’s
mouth left his neck. He was alive and Carlos was fed.
Carlos attempted to steady Paul and step away but Paul caught his chin,
forced his mouth to Carlos’s. He could taste himself on this vampire’s tongue: salty,
rich and slightly metallic, more delicious than the finest, rarest steak. He wanted
Carlos now, with a desperate, frantic hunger of his own. He wanted to lick, to bite,
to taste. His fingers traced below the long black robe, chasing over the coolness of
Carlos’s silky skin.
He pushed the black robe over Carlos’s broad shoulders, exposing luminous,
pale skin that gleamed against the dark, downy cashmere. Paul hungered to run his
fingers over all of it, to touch this man who obviously felt the same. The taste of his
own blood on Carlos’s tongue made Paul shake with something he couldn’t
describe: anxiety, passion, hunger.
Carlos could smell Paul’s fear; adrenaline thundering through his veins, the
tremble of his breath as it ghosted over his lips. His chest tightened at the
knowledge that Paul still felt afraid of him, and at the same time he could feel his
own blood warming; Paul had given to him willingly, if a little reluctantly, and all he
wanted to do was return it; give Paul back some fragment of the life that he had
given Carlos.
If he could.
If Paul would let him.