Still watching his koibito’s face, Arisada dug beneath the leather pants. worked one hand between those straining thighs to cup Tatsu’s chamois-soft sac. Kneading the twin orbs, his forefinger circled along that silky stretch of skin behind them. Was rewarded by a dragged out, “Oh, fuck.”
At the knowing touch of Arisada’s hand, waves pulsed through Tatsu’s chute. His skin sang. His balls boiled with the need for release. His hips bucked, desperate thrusts that drove his cock to the back of the vampire’s throat.
Fakku, one more suck from that mouth and he’d come. An insane craving to feel of Arisada’s fangs on his prick hammered at the back of his skull As if from somewhere far away, he heard his own harsh incomprehensible pleas.
“Arisada…want you in my ass. Dozo, fuck me.” Tatsu babbled, pistoning his hips against Arisada’s willing mouth.
Those begging cries threatened to drown Arisada in a whirlpool of joy and despair. Oh how he craved to give in to the boy’s need. To bury his prick in that tight ass, feel the heat from those pulsing walls surround him.
Arisada dragged one nail over that delicate stretch between Tatsu’s balls and his puckered hole. One finger circled against the tight rim. The resisting muscle quivered then softened. He pushed his knuckle deep into Tatsu’s pulsing, wet core.
Pain and pleasure exploded into one massive blast through his core. He thought he moaned “go deeper,” wasn’t sure. That probing finger curled against his pulsing walls, deeper, found his gland. His load boiled up from his balls into his heated shaft. Gasping mewls rasped from his vocal cords at that climbing sweet hurt.
Arisada answered by swallowing Tatsu’s prick until the bulbous head hit the back of his throat. He sucked back with cheek-hollowing force. At the same moment, his second finger entered Tatsu’s chute, delving deep, vibrating over that spongy gland.
“Iku, iku!” Tatsu’s howl shattered the night. He convulsed, fucked into the demanding mouth. His orgasm blasted from his prick, jetting out in great wet pulses down the vampire’s willing throat.
That briny, sweet cum filled Arisada’s cock-hungry mouth, spilled in creamy drops from between clamped lips. With that first taste, a ferocious need for possession gripped the vampire.
He’s yours. Claim him! The demand pounded along every fiber of the kyūketsuki’s body, echoed in his heartbeat, throbbed through his sex, his mind. He’s yours. Claim him!
The chains around Arisada’s iron control almost shattered. The unthinkable filled his mind, a desire so reprehensible, yet so undeniable. One bite. One tiny bite into that tender flesh. The tips of his fangs emerged, brushed the taut skin of Tatsu’s shaft—a delicate touch that left no mark but the one in Arisada’s heart.
With the strength of raw desperation, Arisada pulled away. Regret scalded him. Sweet as it was, Tatsu’s cum was a poor substitute for what he really craved—the boy’s blood.
Tatsu’s body pulsed with aftershocks as powerful as his orgasm. Chest heaving, he fought for to breath. The rigid muscles of his legs gave way. He sagged against the solid trunk of the willow.
“Tatsu-kun!” Arisada stood and grabbed the boy around the shoulders, drawing Tatsu against his chest. “I’ve got you,” He kissed the hollow above Tatsu’s collarbone. Pressed his lips against the runaway beat racing beneath the sweat-soaked skin. His fangs stirred. In haste, Arisada tucked Tatsu’s softened member into his pants. A last intimate touch.
A deep lassitude turned Tatsu compliant with trust. Why couldn’t they stay just like this? His spent cock stirred at the warmth of Arisada’s palm as the vampire dressed him. Tatsu heard his zipper close, wanted to protest it. The vampire’s prick, pressed hard and unreleased against Tatsu’s thigh.
“Please, I want to suck you, let me.…” Desperate want grated in Tatsu’s voice. He had to have his mouth around Arisada’s prick, his throat gulping down that frothy spunk. Hear his name spilling from the vampire’s lips in an ecstatic cry.
Despite his sorrow, Arisada’s heart soared. He heard the note of love in that plea. The vampire would cherish those words and this time—his only one with the boy—in his heart forever.
“Never forget you are my soul’s chosen. Sayonara, koibito,” he whispered. His lips brushed over Tatsu’s sweat-drenched brow. An immeasurable grief that he had to part with this precious youth warred with his joy.
Tatsu smelled tears. The scent moved him in a way that nothing else could have. Then, the press of that warm body vanished. His gaze swept the empty glade.
He stared up through the branches of the tree. A pale, pink light tinged the clouds on the Eastern horizon. Daylight, a stark reminder that his lover—yes, his lover—was not human. Fear filled him. Would he ever see the vampire again. The loss threatened to shatter him.
“Ojii-san, what do I do now?” Inside his heart where Grandfather never died he heard, “The answer to the heart always lies in following the Way of the Samurai.”
.
Sixteen
The purple smudge of dusk filtered through the thin drapes of Tatsu’s bedroom. He dragged himself from the embrace of a deep sleep, yawned and stretched the contented stretch of the well blown. He lay still for a moment, enjoying the lassitude, and the memory of a hot mouth around his cock.
Shimatta! He bolted upright, looked down at his prick. Still there. He groped his groin—balls, asshole, skin between. No bite marks. His dick gave a happy throb, recalling every detail of the night before.
Groaning, he flopped back. “Jaysus, what the feckin’ hell you gone an’ done boyo?”
Bizarrely, Bana’s voice in his mind asked the telling question. What the fuck had he done? More to the point, what the fekkin’ hell had he allowed to be done to him? Tatsu had no answer.
His cock had been buried to the root in that fanged mouth. He’d fucked the vampire’s throat, needing and taking and loving every second of those scorching lips. Could not believe it was Arisada teasing him, sucking him deep, bringing him to the most mind-shattering orgasm of his life. Arisada the vampire.
Tatsu’s body surged at the memory of that mouth’s deep, stroking pull, those elegant fingers drilling into his core. And Tatsu knew he’d begged for it. Not just with words but with his body, with that kiss—with a prick that hardened under the vampire’s gaze.
“Chikusho, I am so fucked.” Tatsu groaned. His growing hard-on said he hadn’t been fucked at all.
Since Sage, there had been no one in Tatsu’s heart or in his ass. After a couple of hurried relationships with sad, little endings, Tatsu accepted he was incapable of giving himself emotionally and physically to any other. Until last night.
With a groan, he rose and headed to the shower. He shivered beneath the stinging water, deliberately keeping it cold. Letting the freezing blast distract his mind and his prick from thoughts of that flame-haired vampire with a mouth that could suck cock through a tailpipe.
Now it had been a week since they had met at Kuboto Garden. Twice, Tatsu had visited the park. He had wandered through the darkened landscape hoping to find the vampire. The second time, Tatsu found himself stroking the rough bark of the willow as he recalled every detail of their moments together. Arisada’s lips on his mouth, licking his nipples, sucking his cock.
Until Arisada pinned him to that tree and took his cock into his mouth, Tatsu never believed anything could be more important than revenge. Or more complicated. The confusion rioted in his head. How could he have fallen in love with the enemy? Fear had kept him from answering his own question. With a muttered curse, he had torn away from the tree and fled.
“Yatta. There you sonofabitch, done.” With a grunt, Tatsu tightened the last bolt on the Drifter’s manifold. A few days ago, Phoenix had handed Tatsu a crate of grease-covered Kawasaki parts. “Heard you was looking for this shit. One of my Bros down in Oakie was gonna trash ’em. Figure they’ll keep that Jap crap of yours running until you get some real wheels.” The long sentence rendered Tatsu speechless. It was the most the biker had ever sai
d to him.
He took advantage of the Colony’s engine repair shop to fix every problem on the bike. But, shit, he did not know how to fix the crazy turmoil in his mind.
Tatsu stood and pushed his hand into the small of his aching back. Jigoku, he needed out of here. He pulled his chaps over his jeans, yanked on riding gloves and fired up the Drifter. He gave the throttle a hard twist. Fifteen-hundred cubic centimeters of power thundered with new life. The Drifter’s fierce snarl gave voice to Tatsu’s unexpected anger. He slapped the control button to open the massive steel doors, and burst through with less than in inch to spare on either side.
He roared away from the foundry, trying to outrun his confusion. Didn’t care where he rode only craving the thrill of speed. The wind tore his hair loose from the confines of his headband. The vibration of the engine sent shivers all the way through his ass—his wanting-to-be fucked ass.
The bike thundered its approval as Tatsu raced along the broken highway toward the distant snow-capped peaks. Riding the wrong side of reckless, he crouched over his handlebars. The tachometer redlined and the engine screamed as he took the broken road climbing the mountain. Dodging potholes and piles of rocks, his knee mere inches from the cracked asphalt, he powered the Drifter through the hairpin curves.
A drunken thrill shivered through him. He balanced on that emotional edge where one mistake would send him tumbling over the edge. Rode the bike the same way. One tiny slip and they’d both hurtle into the abyss. But the exhilaration was a pale shadow compared to remembering that wild ride on Arisada’s mouth.
When he hit the top of the mountain, Tatsu’s chest pumped as if he climbed to the summit on two legs instead of astride a powerful machine. He leaned his ass against the bike and took a deep drag on his cigarette. The clouds parted and a single stream of sunlight bounced in playful glints off the slate-grey water of the Sound. Such a breathtaking sight now lost forever to Bana and Arisada. The knowledge curled into a hard knot in Tatsu’s stomach. Then despite his sorrow, Tatsu’s entire body quickened with lust for the kyūketsuki.
Baka! He’d fucked up. He’d lost his mission. Fallen under the spell of a creature he should have killed on sight. Yet, he knew with a helpless certainty, he could never slay Arisada even if the vampire’s fangs were about to rip out his throat.
He picked up a rock and hurled it off the side of the mountain. “Damn you Saito Arisada!” he screamed over and over. The fierce mountain wind whipped away his screams and carried them into the unheeding sky.
Riding full-throttle back to the city, he reveled in the bite of the air that dashed tears from his eyes, froze the muscles of his face. The Drifter devoured the treacherous mountain road. The snarl of its engine gave voice to Tatsu’s fury.
A blind dogleg loomed ahead, one that promised death to those who ignored its danger. What the fuck? Ignore the vicious curve, hold the Kawasaki straight. Seppuku by motorcycle. The impulse mesmerized him.
He felt himself flying, flying, flying off the edge of the cliff. The Drifter’s engine screaming as its tires spun uselessly for lost traction, the sucking grip of the road suddenly gone. The lurch of the handlebars as the motorcycle obeyed gravity and dropped toward slate-grey water. The grips tearing from his hands with a hard jerk. His ass lifting from the saddle, the Drifter dropping away, tumbling over and over beneath him. The freezing shock when he hit the water, his studded boots and swords dragging him under despite his body’s instinctive struggle to live. Perhaps pain, perhaps panic, then a merciful blackness. All pain gone. Finished.
Would his tamashii reunite with his ancestors? Would his parents smile and greet him with loving arms? His brother and sister run toward him with cries of joy?
Suddenly, Ojii-san appeared, body rigid with disapproval. With a cold yet sad stare, the venerated old man spoke. “Sukun, you have dishonored our name.”
“No, Ojii-san, I did my best!”
“Then finish it!” The old man cried and vanished.
Tatsu’s defiant cry bounced off the mountain. He rejected the false promise of that hungry curve, leaned with the bike, the symmetry of man and machine conquering the road. In a flash, they were through, easing into highway leading like an arrow toward the city. Toward fukushū.
Closer to Seattle, he curbed his speed. Absurdly, his stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. Death—his or others—be damned for the moment. Tonight, he wanted food from home, his true home, Japan. He turned the Drifter toward the huge Olympia Freetrade Market.
Flanked by the fishing docks on one side, a dozen warehouses on the other, and spilling between a half-dozen high-rises, the market was the economic lifeblood of the city. During the daylight hours, it thronged with people hunting bargains among hundreds of mom-and-pop stalls, buying and selling life’s necessities. As dusk approached, merchants dropped their prices and engaged in a furious competition to separate a few more coins from shoppers.
The cacophony of this enterprise filled Tatsu’s ears as he locked the Drifter to a steel fence post and went in search of edible bargains. It took some hunting but he found miso, Soba noodles, fresh vegetables, and a small fish. On impulse, he bought a bottle of sake. Maybe if he got drunk, this crazy obsession with Arisada would magically go away.
As he climbed a hill back to his ride, he passed one of the many second-hand shops. He looked idly through the cracked window displaying a jumble cheap knickknacks and tarnished heirlooms. Obeying an impulse, Tatsu wandered into the dingy store. His eyes fell on an open box of pastels. He traced his fingers over the chalky surface of the crayons. He used to love sketching. A sudden, unexpected memory caught his heart him—kachan! His mother holding up one of his drawings, praising it to the family.
He never sketched after he left Japan.
The shopkeeper chattered away in Mandarin as she waddled toward him. She clutched a large sketchpad, which she shoved against Tatsu’s chest, forcing him to take it. She nodded toward the art box. He stammered his refusal. She pointed to the crayons holding up four fingers. A real bargain her gapped-tooth smile said.
Before the enthusiasm of the old woman, Tatsu caved. “Hai, hai, obaa-san,” even though he knew she did not understand Japanese. Grinning sheepishly, he handed over the cash and walked out with the pad tucked under one arm, the pastels stowed in his backpack with his food and the liquor.
After dinner, Tatsu changed into his yukata and curled up in his easy chair with a cup of wine. The sketchpad rested on his knees. He ran his fingers over the pebbly surface of the first page. The corners were yellow with age but he rather liked that. Using one of his favorite colors, burnt umber, Tatsu sketched an oval, letting his hand wander where it willed. A second oval evolved into a pair of wire spectacles. He perched them halfway down a button nose. Two quizzical eyes peered over the bridge. His hand moved faster. A pointed chin, narrow face topped by a shock of thick hair chopped ragged and straggling over largish ears. A grin, crooked on one side. Another quick couple of lines, and a beloved, almost forgotten, face emerged.
“Well, hello Hisoka-kun.” Framed by the frayed edges of the paper was Watanabe Hisoka. As Tatsu stared at the portrait, doors to memories burst open. He met Hisoka in grade two and they became inseparable. They shared secrets and joys, and a friendship that might have led to more. After he moved to New Mexico, Hisoka became lost in the fog surrounding Tatsu’s memories.
Just for fun, Tatsu drew a pair of neko ears peeking above Hisoka’s spiky hair. The cat ears and glasses gave Hisoka’s face a whimsical look endearingly combined with a deep wisdom. Tatsu took a long sip as he looked at the drawing.
“Soka-kun. How could I have forgotten you?”
Their favorite boyhood game was to make up plays about the other’s future as they tried to outdo the other with outlandish stories. Tatsu’s dramas involved bookish Hisoka defeating evil aliens and giant robots that ran amok in the city. Tatsu acted as the giant robot. Hisoka’s stories always ended with Tatsu wielding his swords to save the
kingdom and its imperiled princess.
One rainy afternoon, Hisoka demanded the hero kiss his princess to break the evil spell cast upon her. Caught up in the game, Tatsu agreed. In an awkward, bumping of noses, they mashed their lips together in an imitation of passion.
“That was weird,” Hisoka giggled as he pulled away and straightened his crooked glasses.
Tatsu touched his mouth, tingling with a strange wonderment. His body flamed hot then prickly cold then hot again. Kissing another boy was not weird at all. It felt amazing.
The next time, Hisoka insisted that the story ended with Tatsu falling in love with a beautiful samurai. Tatsu thought Hisoka was twisting the game to cover his embarrassment of their princess-kissing episode.
“Baka, Hisoka-kun,” Tatsu punched his bespeckled friend in the arm. “Men don’t fall in love with other men.”
“You will,” Hisoka asserted. They ended up tussling each other to the floor in mock anger. However, despite Tatsu’s protests, Hisoka insisted on ending every story with Tatsu in love with a beautiful samurai.
Tatsu stared at the portrait of his friend as if it could give him answers. Watanabe Hisoka, you were right, he mused. Unfortunately, the beautiful samurai is not only very much male but kyūketsuki.
Tatsu flipped the page and began a new image. His mind drifted, absorbed in figure and form. Half an hour later, he looked at his creation. The vague lines depicted a view from atop a mountain. In the valley below, a mist drifted over a cluster of buildings. A man carrying a loaded basket on a pole over his shoulder climbed a narrow path into a line of trees. Deep weariness bowed the man’s shoulders and sorrow weighted that single heavy step. With an odd shock, Tatsu realized he’d drawn the Temple of Mii-dera.
Eternal Samurai Page 22
