Dark Angel

by Bridget Essex

  The blood-red doors behind me looked exactly like they’d looked on the outside. There didn’t seem to be, at least from where I was standing, any way to open them. So even if I wanted to change my mind and leave, I couldn’t exactly do that right this instant.

  I turned and wavered, taking a single step toward Elle, my heart rising into my throat. What was I doing? Why had I let her bring me here?

  Why did I have the terrible feeling that when I’d agreed to go with her, I hadn’t exactly been in my right mind?

  Elle made her way lazily over to the chair and then sat down in it, sprawling backwards so that the small of her back touched nothing, her shoulders slumping against the back of the chair, and her legs open and relaxed as she put one long finger under her chin, tapping it thoughtfully against herself as I walked slowly around the chair and came into view in front of her.

  There was no fire in the grate in that massive fireplace, and there was only one single industrial-looking chandelier that seemed to be pieced together from several dozen dangling lamps. It hung from the ceiling, which was very far away from us. The room was dusky at best, with hardly any light to see by, but still I stared at her in the dark, even as she gazed at me, her head to the side as she considered me.

  “Whatever am I to do with you?” she asked, her low, velvet voice now taking on a tone of playfulness.

  I bristled at that, closing my hands into fists. “I don’t even know why I’m—” I began, but she cut me off with a single, firm shake of her head and a low chuckle.

  “Come here, Cassandra,” she said then, her gravelly voice soft and sibilant now, calling me forward as clearly as if I’d been physically pulled.

  My body moved before I could even comprehend that I was moving. I strode over to her woodenly and stood right in front of her, my thigh resting against the gilt wooden arm of the chair, as if I was suddenly too tired to hold myself up.

  She gazed up at me, her face unreadable in the darkness. All I could see were her glittering eyes, trained on me, holding my gaze with a steely command. She reached out, I could hear the shift of her clothing as she reached out slowly, and then I felt her fingers grazing my thigh.

  A shiver moved through me as she traced one long finger in a slow, unceasing circle against the fabric of my skirt. My skirt was knee-length, but her circle was moving lower, I realized, down to the skirt’s hem. Her finger would soon connect with my skin.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice husky. She cocked her head just a little, her smile flashing in the darkness. She paused, her cold hand against my thigh as she considered me, the ache deep inside of me becoming an insistent pulse.

  “Do you want me to stop?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious. There was not a single bit of feeling to it other than that.

  No. No, I didn’t want her to stop.

  I said nothing. I bit my lip, my breath starting to come quicker, my pulse beginning to beat faster. And she continued, her fingers turning and turning, making that single circle that my entire body was tuned to. And even though I knew it was coming, I still didn’t manage to quell the gasp when her ice-cold hand connected to the skin on the side of my knee, ducking just a little under the skirt’s hem to graze me there.

  “You’re…you’re so cold,” I gasped out, my teeth chattering as I closed my hands into fists again, as I felt my body curve toward her.

  “Peril of the profession, I’m afraid,” she whispered, and I stared down at her with wide eyes. The words had come out low, strained. Her cool was beginning to…crack.

  But still, her finger drifted in its lazy, controlled circle up under the hem of my skirt, her hand moving now, up and under the fabric. It was so brazen and unexpected, but I stayed still as she touched me, even though I shivered, even though I could no longer keep my breathing steady or my heart rate on an even pace. Everything in me ached to touch her, my legs shook from the strain of quelled desire, but I stayed still.

  Her lazy, relaxed posture was beginning to change. Slowly, she rolled herself forward by degrees until she was sitting up, until she was leaning forward, until she was staring up at me intently, holding my gaze, her fingers drifting up high now, under my skirt and dangerously close to the throbbing center between my legs.

  I wanted her. I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anything. Desire pounded through me in time with my heartbeat, and want was pooling through every part of me, through my limbs, but especially at the center between my legs, especially where she drew the cold, thin line upon my skin.

  When a single finger brushed against the front of my panties, a whimper escaped me. Still, I stood, but I was crumpling from uncontrolled want, my hands in shaking fists at my sides, a moan desperate to escape me, too, but I wouldn’t let it. I needed to hold on to some semblance of control. She couldn’t undo me like this.

  But she already had.

  Slowly, so slowly that it was more frustrating than any single thing that had ever frustrated me, she reached up with her other arm, and she wrapped it around my waist. She drew me forward, and I found my right knee sliding next to her left thigh as I crumpled, and in one effortless motion, she’d pulled me down so that I was straddling her lap.

  Still she gazed at me, her dark, flashing eyes holding mine captive. It was unnerving, her staring so deeply and intently into me, even as her fingers again drifted against the front of my panties, curving back to stroke that center between my legs, over the panties’ fabric, fabric that was absolutely and utterly saturated. I felt so exposed as she slowly, softly, caressed me, holding that gaze.

  I didn’t want to hold her gaze. I wanted to fling my head back, close my eyes, detach myself from this moment if only in that slight way. I never much had my eyes open, never held eye contact during sex. I think I’m pretty good at sex in general, but there’s always awkward moments, you know? Where you try to figure out where she and you should put your legs, or what position you’re going to try. You’re trying to be so cool and suave, and there’s an awkward tangle and probably some nervous laughter. I’d tried to be so forward in bed, so adventurous, and what it had really ended up resulting in was me making an idiot of myself more often than not when I’d mention “hey, we should try this!” and was met with derisive laughter. Josie had always wanted the missionary position, had never wanted anything but us grinding together, and now that I consider she left me for a guy…I kind of understand why.

  But here and now, all I knew was that Elle staring into my eyes and softly caressing my center was the most intimate act I’d ever done. Our gazes were locked, and there was nothing I could hide from her in that moment. She was staring down into the deepest parts of me, even as she pushed back the fabric of the panties, even as her fingers ran over my engorged clitoris, eliciting a hiss of shock from me. Her fingers were so cold, and yet it felt so right as they ran against my skin, and then slowly, damnably slowly, they moved back and forth over my wetness, becoming slick, before she sought upward and in to me.

  I moaned, arching my back and trying to push myself down harder onto her fingers, but even though she was under me, even though I was straddling her, she still had the upper hand. She retracted her fingers with a small shake of her head until I’d settled, and then and only then did she reach up inside of me again, thrusting into me with short, controlled strokes that curved her fingers up and into me, moving inside of me with such a precise caress that I thought I was seeing stars. It felt so good, so utterly good, as her thumb pressed against my clit and her other hand lifted up the back of my shirt, drifting up and against the skin of my back with her cold palm.

  Everything else faded away but that rhythmic thrusting, the sensation of her cool fingers inside of me, her thumb making a circle over my clit as I bit my lip, as I angled my hips and pressed down on her hand.

  She lifted up the hem of my shirt, and—holding my gaze with those flashing dark eyes—she pushed the hem of my shirt higher and higher, until it was over my breasts in their bra, my worst bra, I hav
e to admit, the bra I kept telling myself I’d throw out when I got a replacement for it, and never ended up getting rid of it. It wasn’t a sexy black satin number, but a simple, plain gray sports bra, because everything else was dirty and I hadn’t had time to do laundry.

  But even as the awkward shame began to build through me, that she was seeing me in this, when I promise that I own sexy bras…she glanced at my breasts with a small smile. And she pushed up the bra without a single comment, her mouth pressing a soft, cool kiss to the point between my breasts, her open mouth now drifting over the swell, her tongue tracing a cool line.

  Her mouth covered and consumed my right nipple, her tongue flicking out against it even as I cried out, her fingers stroking harder and quicker now, arching up and into me, everything reaching a fevered pace. Her open hand pressed against the small of my back, pressing me to her, pressing me against her and over her as she rose a little then, leaving my breasts exposed to the cool air as she traced her tongue up.

  She devoured my mouth with hers, then.

  She’d kissed me before, that single, unexpected kiss that I knew I’d dream about for the rest of my life. But that had been our first kiss. I hadn’t had time to prepare or even understand how good it could be a second time. Now as her mouth covered mine, as her cold and my heat merged together, there were a million sensations over and through and in my body, a million sensations as my right hand gripped the chair arm, and the other wove into her dirty blonde hair, pressing her to me as hard as I could.

  She tasted of mint and metal. Blood, I realized. It wasn’t metal I was tasting—it was blood. That should have been enough to make me stop this, to back away from her face, from her body, from her hands. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop this, even if I’d wanted to.

  And there was not a single part of me that wanted to.

  She thrust up inside of me, her fingers questing, seeking, and her thumb made perfect circles against me, and as our mouths merged, as her tongue slipped past my lips, I felt the first tremors move through me. It was too erotic, all of this, and though this was the quickest I’d ever felt this turned on with, well, anyone, it shouldn’t have surprised me. I was so consumed by this, every part of me on fire, that when the tremors became more urgent, when a great wave of pleasure moved through me, that’s all I could feel and that’s all I was.

  I came as she pressed against me, inside of me, devouring me with mouth and tongue. I rode the waves of pleasure as they moved through me, and she coaxed more and more of the waves out of me as her thumb slowed but didn’t still, as her fingers slowed and slowed, but still pressed up and into me with short, hard strokes.

  Finally, I slumped against her, and with a slick, wet sound, she removed her hand from me, folding the center of my panties back where it belonged, trailing a long, wet finger down my thigh, and then up until she was holding me around the waist with two hands. My head was against her shoulder, and I collapsed against her, panting as I turned my head toward her, pressing my shaking face against the cold skin of her neck. In the dark, I could feel her jaw flex, could feel her smile, a cold, calculating curve of her lips.

  This entire time, she had done nothing with her teeth. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I suppose that popular culture had led me to believe that vampires usually used their teeth during sex. But she hadn’t bitten me or drank from me. If anything, she’d kept her mouth closed during most of these moments, only watching me with her beautiful dark eyes. But now, I could hear her lick her lips, her tongue running over her teeth in the darkness as I straightened, still not moving from where I sat now, straddling her lap as I straightened and glanced at her face.

  I didn’t know what to do. This was the awkward part, wasn’t it? This was the part where I tried to be so smoldering, or whatever word you could possibly use for me, as I tried to reciprocate, and it was going to be bad.

  “Do you…want a drink?” I managed, uncertainty making my words shake as I tapped the side of my neck, tilting my head back and leaning toward her. The orgasm was still moving through me in smaller waves of pleasure now, but there was a surging energy moving through me, too. I wasn’t done yet. I wanted to reciprocate.

  For a long moment, she did nothing, and I wondered if she was going to find what I’d said…amusing. But she didn’t laugh at my words. Her eyes darkened a little, and she cocked her head, her gaze flicking quickly down my neck and back up to my eyes again.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered quietly, her gravelly voice softening to velvet again, even as her words shook ever so slightly. She breathed out and shook her head, and then she stiffened under me. I scrabbled up and stood as she pushed herself up and off of the chair, running a hand through her hair in sharp agitation as she turned away from me.

  “I…I just thought—” I stammered, but Elle was pacing quickly now, back and forth in front of the fireplace, not even glancing in my direction. She made a single turn, gripping the edge of the fireplace mantle, a brisk metal affair, with hands so tightly that her knuckles almost glowed white in the half-light.

  “Alec!” she bellowed, making me jump. Her voice was so dark and sharp that the chair seemed to leap against the floor. “Alec!” she shouted again.

  There were footsteps from down one of the hallways, rapid footsteps that burst into running. After a moment, a man rounded the corner, skidding to a halt with wide eyes as he took in the situation. Immediately he struck me as gay, though there wasn’t a particular feature or mannerism that was stereotypical—maybe it was his vibe. He had broad shoulders, a shock of white-blonde hair, and enough eyeliner to put any rock star to shame. He’d squeezed his muscular legs into tiny skinny jeans, and he wore no shirt—his skin was as pale as paper. He actually looked like he’d just gotten up from a very deep sleep.

  “Take her to a room, any room,” said Elle, her voice low and husky. She wouldn’t look at either of us as she turned and stared down at the empty grate in the fireplace, her face angled away from me so that I couldn’t see it.

  My cheeks were warm, and I was so confused. The man—Alec, I supposed—frowned a little and jerked his head backward, down the hallway. He made no move to touch me, but he was very much implying that I should follow him.

  I did. I shivered a little and walked after him as he turned and made long strides down the empty, barren corridor. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly so cold that I couldn’t stop shaking.

  We were a ways down the corridor before I heard anything coming from the room we’d just left. And then, behind us, I could hear the sound of metal hitting metal. Over and over again, the sound rang out in sharp succession until a roar surrounded us, a roar of anguish that I didn’t recognize until the very last second before it cut out.

  Elle. Elle had made that sound. It was harsh and hard and broken, that cry.

  Alec cast a glance over his shoulder, shaking his head quickly and lengthening his stride with eyebrows raised high. I had to trot to keep up.

  “What did you do to her?” he asked almost companionably once we’d gone through another of those sliding metal door affairs, and it had clicked closed behind us. We were in another length of hallway, but there were low-wattage fluorescent lights overhead now, and I could see a little better.

  “Do?” I asked incredulously, staring this man down.

  He shrugged noncommittally, as if it was obvious that I didn’t have to answer him, and he continued down the corridor, glancing down at a slim leather wristwatch.

  “I’ve just not seen her like that in a long time is all,” he said, his baritone voice sly as he cast another glance my way. “She doesn’t usually lose her head over her girls.”

  I froze in place.

  “Her girls,” I repeated. I was starting to remind myself of a parrot.

  “No offense,” he said with another shrug, muscles rippling over his chest. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a book you couldn’t pay me to read. I really wished he was wearing a shirt.

/>   I was so far in over my head that I was drowning. What had just happened?

  What was I even doing here?

  “I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but I felt so sad and small in that moment. Everything was moving too quickly and I didn’t have time to make sense of any of it. “I really think I have to be going,” I said then in a small voice. I didn’t make a move, only curled my hands into loose, shaking fists at my sides.

  Alec sighed and shook his head. “She wanted you to stay,” he said mildly, but his brows were up. He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice as he winced. “And, ah…she’s really not in the mood for a discussion right this minute.”

  I took another deep breath; the world that I thought I’d had such a great handle on was starting to spin beneath me.

  “Are you both vampires?” I asked suddenly. He was pretty pale. He looked like he could be a vampire.

  “Yes,” he said simply, his head to the side. “And I’m pretty sure you already knew that before you entered those doors.”

  Yes, I had known it. And yet I’d still come inside with her. I shivered a little, glancing up at the flickering fluorescents overhead.

  “Look,” he sighed out. “Whatever just…happened between you and Elle might happen again. But I’ve gotta tell you—if you’re one of those people who just wants to have sex with vampires and hope we turn you into one of us, you’ve got another thing coming, honey. It’s not going to happen. She’s not going to turn you into a vampire just because you slept with her—it doesn’t work like that.”

  It sounded so cold, so sterile—like we’d made a bargain or money had been exchanged for favors. Did he think I was a prostitute? There were so many things vying for position in my head to be said that moment, but the only thing that came out was: “it wasn’t like that,” I blurted, my tone sounding…hurt.