by Aimer Boyz
Symon pulled Michael onto his lap, snaked his arms around Michael’s waist. One hand traced the ridges and valleys of Michael’s chest. The other hand moved south, wrapped around his cock. He kissed the nape of Michael’s neck, dragged his mouth down his prey’s spine.
Through it all, through the taste, and touch, and scent of this man, a part of Symon’s mind pondered the conundrum that was Michael. Immunity to vampiric influence was a mind-fuck all on its own, but this psychic bullshit? What kind of bogus circus trick was that? And if, capital I, capital F, Michael had read Symon’s mind in the elevator and knew he was Vampire, why had he walked into Symon’s suite? How the fuck was he okay being a blood bag?
Symon set his teeth into the curve of Michael’s neck and Michael spread his legs, offered himself up. “God, Symon, don’t stop. Please.”
That plea on Michael’s lips made Symon ache, made him need…more. More for Michael, more for himself.
Symon hoisted Dimple Man off his lap and into the air. He spun him around and set him down exactly where he wanted him, on his knees between Symon’s legs. He pushed his hand through Michael’s hair, tugged his head over his cock. “Suck. Slick me up, drool, spit. Get me wet. I want inside you.”
Michael went still. Symon watched the heat die out of the grey eyes as his brain kicked in. He sat back on his heels. “No.”
Symon had to admire that, the courage that refused a vampire. A vampire who had just thrown him into the air like he was a dodge ball, for fuck’s sake. And yet, Dimple Man said no. Major cojones, or he trusted Symon. That thought opened a door Symon slammed shut. “You don’t bottom?”
“Oh, I do,” Michael grinned. “Find a rubber and my ass is yours.”
“We don’t need one.”
The grin died. Michael grabbed his briefs off the floor and pulled them on, bent to pick up his jeans.
“Michael.” Just the one word. Just his name, but it was enough.
Jeans clutched in one fist; Michael faced Symon. He looked betrayed, his dimple gone as if it had never been, and Symon found he wanted it back. Human slow, Symon stood, set his hand at the nape of Michael’s neck. He felt the warmth of Michael’s body, the softness of his skin, but he got nothing of what Michael was feeling, thinking. He wasn't the seventh son of a seventh son, whatever the fuck that was.
Michael went still, his pupils blowing up, pushing the grey out of his eyes. He looked not at Symon, but inside him. It was intense. Symon felt like a fish on a hook, caught in those eyes, helpless.
Is this what it feels like?
Six centuries of using vampiric influence and never once had Symon wondered how it felt to be prey, how it felt to be on the other side. To protect the Eternal Secret, he looked into their eyes, ordered them to forget, and walked away. It was how it was done, how it had always been done. Now, trapped in Michael’s eyes, he wondered if every one of his prey had felt as helpless as he did now. He released his hold on Michael’s neck, stepped back. Soul-searching and vampires were not a good mix.
“Okay,” Michael said, his dimple back.
“You heard?”
“Yep.” Michael tossed his jeans. “Loud and clear. Vampires can’t transmit disease. Something about the whole dead thing.” He grinned at Symon. “Good to know.”
Michael’s arms closed around him and it felt…right. It felt like they had always stood like this and always would. Like Symon belonged in Michael’s arms.
Home.
“Fuck.” Symon pulled out of Michael’s embrace, plucked his shirt from the floor. His back to Michael, he shrugged into the shirt, and worked hard at pretending he had not felt that insidious feeling of contentment.
Nope. Not going there.
“I thought that was the plan.” Michael hopped onto the bed. “Guess you old guys need more time.”
Symon didn’t need more time. He didn’t need any recovery time, not directly after a feeding. Vampires didn’t, not that he was telling Michael that. He wasn’t telling Michael anything, especially not that he’d walked out of his arms because it felt too good.
Michael snagged one of the pillows Symon had scattered and stretched out, his arms crossed behind his head. “Question.”
“No, I don’t need Viagra,” Symon said, climbing onto the end of the bed, and sitting cross-legged, facing Michael. They made quite the pair, Symon in only his shirt and Michael in nothing but his briefs. The symbolism made Symon smile; top and bottom.
Michael grinned. “Yeah, no.” The grey eyes got serious. “Why didn’t you just tell me, what’s with the psychic voodoo?”
“Yeah, that would have gone over well.” Symon pitched his voice for insincerity, chanted, “Really, trust me, we don’t need any condoms.” In his normal register, he continued, “If you could read my thoughts, you’d know I wasn’t lying.”
“If?” Michael asked, but the knowledge was there in his eyes. “It was a test. And I thought we were having a moment,” he said, no dimple.
Symon refused to feel guilty. He’d wanted answers and he’d got them. Whatever Michael was, he wasn’t a liar. He’d read his mind and Symon didn’t know what to do with that.
“You know your eyes get weird when you do that? The pupils expand until the grey disappears.” Symon faked a shudder. “Scary shit.”
The dimple was back. “Geeky art history major scares vampire. I like it.”
“Geeky?” Symon studied his mostly naked prey. Michael was put together well, sleek muscles, and long limbs. Sun-brushed skin and an ass Symon was going to miss. Not to mention the dimple. Nothing about the man said geeky. “I don’t see any pocket protectors.”
Michael brushed the implied compliment aside. “I know the difference between Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns in Ancient Greek architecture. Geek.”
“Doric columns? The Parthenon, right?”
“Yes. The Parthenon is the penultimate of the Doric order. Have you been to Greece?”
Symon nodded. “Yeah. A few times act—”
“Athens?” Michael came off the mattress in a blaze of excitement, spitting questions at Symon. “The Acropolis, you’ve seen it? The Parthenon? Is it spectacular? How did it feel, history at your feet? Did you see…?”
Symon watched enthusiasm paint Michael’s face, listened to it tumble through his voice and felt…lighter somehow.
Chapter 4
“SORRY, MICHAEL SAID. “Run on mouth. You can tell me to shut up anytime now.”
“No, I get it. Broken steps, worn pathways, the ghosts of lives long gone. The Colosseum in Rome?” Symon paused, waited for Michael’s nod. “Spectacular, like standing inside history. You can practically hear the crowds roar, but for me, nothing beats The Acropolis in Athens. That first view, that first glimpse of the buildings through the trees. You have to see it for yourself.”
“Way ahead of you, dude. This summer, just me, my backpack, and every ancient temple I can find.”
“You’re going to Greece?”
“And Italy. Pompeii and Herculaneum.”
“So, you’ll be in Naples?”
“My first stop, then Florence and Rome.” Michael laughed. “Going to get my money’s worth out of that Eurail Pass.”
Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say—
“I’ve got a place just outside Verona.”
“No way. You live in Italy?”
“I work there.”
“Verona, really?” Michael looked Symon over, taking in the blue eyes, shoulder length blond hair, and lithe body. “I would have thought Milan.”
Symon laughed. “No, I’m too short for the fashion industry. I’ve got a small winery in the Veneto region.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“What?”
“You’re here for the Ice Wine Festival.”
“Yes. I’m thinking about getting into ice wine. My clients would appreciate something sweet after they dine.” Symon grinned, fangs front and centre.
Michael laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think ice wine is going to cut it. You guys need like, fierce mouth wash, or extra strength Mentos, or something.”
From Michael’s perspective, Symon came out of nowhere. Hands smacked onto the headboard on either side of Michael’s shoulders. Alarm flaring in his eyes, Michael jerked back, but caged between Symon’s arms and the headboard there was nowhere for him to go.
“Trying to tell me something?” Symon asked, his mouth hovering over Michael’s.
The fight or flight reflex melting out of Michael’s body, he smirked up at Symon. “Dude, I’ve been trying to tell you since we got up here.” He pumped his hips up, bumping his cotton-covered dick into Symon’s uncut, uncovered cock. “You’re just not listening.”
Symon leaned in, licked at Michael’s lips. Grazed his mouth along Michael’s jaw and nipped his earlobe. “Can you smell your blood on my breath?” he asked, the merest suggestion of an English accent in his voice.
“Oh, God.” Michael shuddered and tipped his head to the side, giving Symon more space to play. “That should not sound so fucking hot.”
“You like that idea?” Symon asked, his mouth on Michael’s neck. “Your blood inside me, flowing through me? Your blood filling my cock?” He set his teeth into Michael’s shoulder.
“Yes, God yes. Please.” Under the open black shirt, Michael’s hands travelled up Symon’s back, pulled Symon closer.
Symon smiled against his prey’s skin. He liked the sound of that, Michael begging to be fucked. His hands on the headboard, Symon leaned back, put some space between their bodies. “This what you want?” he asked, sliding his cock against the bulge in Michael’s briefs. They both knew the answer to that question, but Symon was curious to see which part of Michael would respond. The smart-ass or the submissive?
Dimple Man looked down at the cock prodding his. “Don’t do me any favours.” The grey eyes were pissed and there wasn’t a dimple in sight, but Michael’s hands lingered on Symon’s back as if he couldn’t stop touching him. “I’m not a fucking charity case.”
“I’m not Mother Teresa, so we’re good.” Symon was off the bed, dragging his prey down the mattress, before Michael knew he’d even moved.
“Hey, what the—”
Symon flipped Michael onto his stomach, stretched out on top of him. With his cock riding Michael’s ass, Symon locked his fingers into Michael’s hair, and pulled his head back. “Patience, Prey. You’re not in charge here.”
At six-foot-one, Michael had five inches on Symon, but dominance wasn’t all about size. Symon felt the tension in the body beneath him, heard it in the pounding of Michael’s heart. He lowered his head, sucked on the pulse point in Michael’s neck, and the man fucking dissolved. He gave in, gave up, gave himself over to Symon. Symon trailed his hands down Michael’s back, followed that path with his mouth. He learned every dip and curve with the tips of his fingers, traced every beguiling bulge of muscle with his tongue. He marked Michael’s skin with his teeth, soothed the small hurts with a touch. Michael was liquid acquiescence under Symon’s body. Almost silent, but for the inarticulate sighs, he was like some great mountain cat. Symon wouldn’t be surprised if the man started to purr. He wedged his knee between Michael’s legs, spread them open, and knelt between them. He slid his hands up the back of Michael’s thighs, slipped them under the leg openings of the black cotton briefs.
“Jesus, Symon, enough with the foreplay.”
Michael’s impatient protest barely registered, it was the sound of his name on the man’s lips that got Symon’s attention. Crouched between Michael’s legs, his hands on the man’s ass, Symon stilled. It wasn’t, he realized, the first time Michael had called him by name, but it was the first time he’d really heard it. Warning lights flashed in his brain even as something warm unfurled inside him.
Prey never called him by name, how could they when they didn’t know it. It’s not like he introduced himself to his fucking dinner. He hadn’t told Michael his name either, the man had plucked it out of his mind. That little piece of mental theft pissed Symon off, made him feel vulnerable, and Symon didn’t do vulnerable. He’d said goodbye to human insecurities the first night he’d sprouted fangs, but here they were back again, crawling out from behind his ribcage because of one so-called psychic. Fucking Niagara-on-the-Lake, all Symon had wanted was a bite of dinner, and he’d got this. A mystery hidden behind smoke-grey eyes, a human who hopped over the wall he’d put between himself and his prey.
Symon liked boundaries; they kept everything simple, easy. Michael and his seventh son of a seventh son routine was a complication he didn’t need. Yes, the man was attractive. With his inexplicably laid-back attitude to blood-drinking fiends, his sense of humour, and that hint of submissive about him, he was more than attractive, but he was human. Symon had every intention of kicking him back over that wall. Right after he fucked the shit out of him.
Symon aimed a swat at Michael’s cotton covered ass. “Who’s in charge here?”
Michael rose onto his elbows, glared at Symon over his shoulder. He didn’t say fuck off, not with his mouth. His face, however, was very vocal.
Symon laughed, swung his hand at Michael’s ass again. “Get rid of these, then get on your knees, hands on the headboard,” he said, climbing off the bed. He headed for the en suite and the lube in his toiletry bag. The lube he used mostly for solo pleasure because he rarely bothered to fuck his prey. Too much effort. Hand jobs usually sent them away happy enough.
He walked back into the bedroom to find Michael in position. Dimple Man made a pretty picture. Naked, on his knees, hands on the headboard, eyes on the wall. Symon tossed the lube on the bed, shrugged out of his shirt, and couldn’t help noticing that Michael never moved, never so much as turned his head to see what Symon was doing. He kept his head down, his eyes trained on the pattern carved into the top of the headboard. The design wasn’t that interesting. Obviously, Michael had played this game before.
It’s not that Symon didn’t appreciate the submissive tableau, he did. Michael looked amazing, but he was a little too composed for Symon’s liking. He wanted to rattle that control, to see the unvarnished Michael. Symon Bradewey wasn’t some random cock Dimple Man had found in a bar and he would make damn sure Michael knew that.
Symon launched himself into the air, swooped down from the ceiling to land on the mattress. Michael wrenched himself sideways, came close to falling off the bed again, and he would have if Symon hadn’t grabbed his shoulder and kept him upright. He traced Michael’s jaw, thumbed his lower lip, and Michael opened for him. “You know what to do,” he said, threading his fingers through Michael’s hair.
He did know what to do. Michael’s tongue clung to Symon’s prick like they’d been attached in a previous life. He made this purring sound in the back of his throat, a symphony of pleasure that made Symon feel like a God. Plus, Michael had this trick of grazing his teeth over Symon’s crown. Fireworks raced down Symon’s spine, exploded in his balls every time he did it. “Enough,” he said, calling a halt before Michael’s talented mouth blew his dick apart.
Dimple Man pulled off, looked up at Symon with eyes gone storm grey, lips red and wet from working Symon’s cock. Symon traced his bottom lip with one finger and Michael sucked it in. Suckled on Symon’s finger like it was all the nourishment he would ever need.
“I could ask how you like it, fast and hard, or slow and deep. I could ask if you wanted it on your back with your knees up around your shoulders or flattened against the mattress with your cock digging into the sheets. I could, but it isn’t about what you like, is It?” Symon asked, rescuing his finger from Michael’s mouth. “What is it about, Michael?”
“You,” Michael said, setting his hands on Symon’s hips. The hesitant touch of a supplicant. Arousal burned in his eyes, flushed pink across his cheek bones. “It’s about what you want.”
Oh, that was nice. So eager, so perfect, almost perfect. “Symon. It’s about what you want, Symon.”
What the fuck? Shut up.
Mortified by his faux-pas, Michael rushed to get it right. “It’s about what you want, Symon.”
“Yes.” Symon walked his fingers down the side of Michael’s face, his neck. A cotton candy caress, soft and sweet. He scratched a nail over Michael’s nipple, clamped it between thumb and finger, not soft, not sweet. “It’s about what I want.”
Symon attacked Michael’s nipple again, pulled it away from his chest and Michael winced, closing his eyes against the pain. He made a small mewling sound like a hurt kitten, but his cock stood straight up and begged for more. Symon released the abused nip and moved onto its twin. Pinch, twist, hurt. Pleased with the sore-looking, tender state of Michael’s nipples, he set a finger under Dimple Man’s chin, and tipped his head up. “Get the lube.”
As Michael scrambled for the plastic bottle, Symon stepped off the mattress. He stood at the side of the bed, nodded for Michael to squeeze the slick into Symon’s hand. “Turn around. Ass in the air.” Michael did more than obey, he offered himself up; knees spread, forehead kissing the duvet, hands clasped behind his back. “You reading my mind again?”
“No, Symon,” Michael said, smiling into the sheet beneath him, and a door creaked open inside Symon. A door he hadn’t realized was locked.
Oh, Michael was good. On his knees, his dick dripping pre-cum, and still he remembered Symon’s earlier order. Impressive yes, but Symon wondered what it would take to break that control. Wondered what it would feel like to push Michael until he didn’t remember his own name, never mind Symon’s. He breached Michael with two fingers, probed for that small patch of—Michael moaned, low and long, and Symon grinned. He tapped Michael’s prostrate a few times and pulled out.
Michael unlocked his hands from behind his back and pressed them flat to the mattress. Obviously, he expected Symon’s cock to replace his fingers, but Symon had something else in mind. “Not yet, Prey. I want to warm you up first.”
“Warm? I’m fucking burning up.”
Faster than Michael could ever hope to be, Symon shoved his head into the mattress, held him there. “What is this about, Prey?”
