by Aimer Boyz
“Thought we were going to get all hot and sweaty, huh?”
It was an illicit duo, the flash of that innocent dimple combined with Michael’s knowing look.
“If we do it right.”
For the first time since he’d been turned, Symon was leading with his cock instead of his fangs. He was thinking sex instead of blood. He was sitting here with a take-out dinner he should have thrown away days ago, all because he liked the guy.
There was no if about it.
“Oh, we’re going to do it right,” Symon promised, pushing the coffee table out of the way, and motioning for Michael to take a seat on the couch. He poured a small amount of wine, handed Michael the glass. “Focus. I need a detailed description of the flavour,” he said, going to his knees between Michael’s legs.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked, ignoring the wine in his glass for the hands inching up his thighs.
“You taste the wine,” Symon said, cupping Michael through the denim. “I taste you.”
His eyes on the hand covering his package, Michael swallowed, his tongue swiping at his bottom lip. “Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t spill the wine,” Symon cautioned, sliding Michael’s zipper open, and freeing his cock from the black briefs. He wrapped his hand around Michael’s dick, teased his thumb across the crown, and lowered his head.
“Wait,” Michael said, his hand grabbing at Symon’s shoulder. “Can you do this?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Symon asked, sitting back on his heels.
“It means, I’m not into blood, especially when it’s mine. You’ve got those things on lock down, right?” Michael asked, pointing at Symon’s mouth. “I don’t want anything cut, scratched, or shredded.”
“No worries,” Symon said, moving back into position. “My saliva is a coagulant.”
“Yeah, not helping,” Michael muttered, even as he lifted his hips for Symon to tug his jeans out from under him.
Symon pried Michael’s boots off, tossed his socks, and dragged denim and briefs down the long legs and off. He nuzzled into Michael’s groin, finding his scent stronger there. Heat, and soap, and something peculiar to this human alone. The hunter in Symon memorized that scent, not that he thought he’d be tracking Michael down. Not so long as Michael answered his cell. “Drink,” he said, lowering his head, and suckling at the satiny skin of Michael's crown.
“Huh?” His attention on his cock, and the mouth on it, Michael had forgotten the glass in his hand.
“This is a bipartisan venture," Symon said, pulling off Michael's cock. "Either we both taste or…”
“Bastard.”
Michael sipped, swished the wine around his mouth, and Symon sucked him down. He leaned over Symon’s back, grabbed the spit glass from the coffee table, and deposited the tasting sample into it. “Cabernet Franc. Jammy, lush, with a red cherry finish.”
“Excellent,” Symon said, his lips sliding down Michael’s dick. “Open the next bottle.”
“Jesus Christ,” Michael muttered, wrestling with the corkscrew. “Like a twist top would have killed you.”
“Already dead, remember?” Symon said, lifting his head long enough to grin up at Michael. He mouthed at Michael’s balls, heard him pour the second sample.
“The Riesling,” Michael said, spitting out the sample, and his report. “Luscious. Nice balance of citrus and sweet. Baked pear finish.”
“Well done, Prey,” Symon said, cradling Michael’s balls in his hand.
“Shut up.”
Michael opened the last two bottles, one after the other. Swish, spit. “The Vidal. Silky. Well balanced. Apricot, touch of lemon,” he said, rattling off his opinion while pouring the last sample. “Trius Vidal. Massive. Opulent. Apricot and toffee finish,” he pronounced, slapping his glass down on the table, and sagging against the back of the couch. “You’re a sadistic asshole,” he said, threading his fingers through Symon’s hair.
And you’re mine.
For these few moments, for this heartbeat in time, Michael was his and yes, Symon was an asshole. Possibly even a sadistic asshole, because he wasn’t ready to get Michael off. Not yet. He fisted Michael with a light grip and slow glides, too light, too slow, and watched Michael want. Watched his hands clench on the sofa cushions, the tension in his jaw. Symon could hear the heavy thud of his heart, could practically taste his arousal, but Michael was being good. He took what Symon offered and didn’t push for more. He didn’t so much as whisper any of the pretty pleas that made Symon’s dick ache. Michael gave himself over to Symon. Prey didn’t do this, didn’t give themselves to him; Symon took. He hadn’t known, hadn’t once suspected how different those two experiences were.
Michael dropped his head over the back of the couch, the arc of his neck an immediate temptation, and the cynic in Symon wondered if he’d bared his neck on purpose. Was Michael lost in the moment or trying to manipulate him? Who was in charge here?
Symon studied the man sprawled on the couch before him, noted the closed eyes, and the compressed line of his lips. He wanted to pry those lips open, with his cock. Off his knees and on his feet, Symon was standing behind the couch before Michael knew he’d moved. He tugged Michael backwards, arching him over the couch.
Michael’s eyes snapped open to find Symon’s cock dangling over his face. “Want something?” he asked, giving Symon an upside-down smirk.
Symon grinned. “Yes.”
“Say please.”
“No. That’s your line,” Symon said, brushing a thumb across Michael’s lips. “And you say it so well. That catch in your voice, the need in your eyes. So fucking hot.”
“What can I say? I’m talented. I’m also observant. I noticed you reneged on the bipartisan deal.”
“Your fault. You pressed your lips together, locked them up tight, and I wanted to break them open.”
“With your cock?”
“Yeah. You have a problem with that?”
A flash of dimple and Michael’s arms reached back, pulling Symon closer. He opened for Symon, welcomed him in with a sliding tongue, and a hum of pleasure. Lips a tight ring around Symon’s cock, Michael squeezed Symon’s ass, urging him to fuck his face.
Symon didn’t need much urging. The sight alone, Michael naked from the waist down, thighs spread, cock dripping, had Symon snapping his hips, feeding his dick to the man beneath him. His fingers digging into Michael’s shoulders, he surrendered to pure sensation. Lost himself in the heat of Michael’s mouth, the pressure of his lips, the press of his tongue.
Caught up in his own rush towards orgasm, Symon didn’t register Michael moving, slipping a hand off Symon’s ass and onto his own neglected cock. The unmistakeable sound of Michael beating off though, that got his attention. “No.”
Michael paused mid-stroke, grey eyes snapping up to meet the blue ones above him.
“Both hands, on me,” Symon ordered. Michael didn’t even hesitate. He dropped his dick and wrapped his arm back around Symon. “Better,” Symon said, picking up his previous rhythm.
Michael muttered around the cock in his mouth, pinched a chunk of Symon’s ass.
The dart of pain painting a grin on Symon’s face, he pressed a hand to Michael’s cheek, felt his cock fucking Michael’s face. “Just like that, Prey. So good.”
One deep thrust at a time, Symon took Michael over, wanting to own him, wanting Michael to know that he owned him. He looked down to find Michael’s hips thrusting, his cock humping the air. That visual started the countdown to a total fucking meltdown. Two fingers breached his hole, the minor invasion tipping Symon over the edge. He pulled out, aimed his dick at Michael’s face, and rained spunk all over him. Nerve endings still igniting, Symon collapsed, curled over the man pinned beneath him.
“You plan on moving anytime soon?” Michael asked, his voice sounding as wrecked as Symon felt.
Symon levered himself off Michael, looked down at the mess he’d made. Jizz everywhere, in Michael’s hair, on his face, hi
s chin. “Don’t move,” he said, hitching his jeans up, and digging his cell out. “You okay with me taking a picture?”
Michael hesitated and Symon thought he might refuse, but he didn’t. “Send me a copy.”
“Put your hand on your dick,” Symon instructed, looking through the camera lens.
“Sure, now I can touch myself.” Michael wrapped his hand around his shaft, giving himself a few leisurely pumps. “This good?”
“Yeah.” Symon took the shot, slipped his phone away, and tore his clothes off. He was over the sofa, sucking Michael into the back of his throat, before Michael knew he’d moved.
“Shit. Would you stop doing that?”
“This?” Symon asked, letting Michael slip from his lips.
“No. Fuck no,” Michael said, a hand gripping Symon’s shoulder. “I meant that magic act you—oh, shit,” he said, as Symon did a good imitation of a Hoover. “Ye-s-s. God, don’t stop.”
Symon had no gag reflex, and over the centuries, he’d perfected his technique. Not that he bothered to roll out his expertise all that often, but for Michael he did. With the beat of Dimple Man’s heart as his guide, Symon tried to give back everything Michael had given him.
Michael’s breath hitched every time Symon grazed his teeth over the head of his cock, a reaction that prompted Symon to try a pinch, in a very delicate area. Michael’s whole body seized, and he poured down Symon’s throat. He collapsed against the back of the couch and Symon grabbed his shirt, wiped away the testament to what they could do to each other.
Be to each other?
Michael plucked his hoodie away from his body with two fingers. “You owe me a sweatshirt.”
Chapter 9
“CHRIST’S BLOOD,” SYMON swore, throwing his pillow at the nearest wall. Bad enough he’d died that morning with Michael’s image tattooed to the back of his eyelids, but to wake tonight to the same fucking picture? Unacceptable. Yes, he liked the man. More than he’d expected to, or wanted to, but he was not attached. What was the point? There could be no future with a human, Symon reminded himself as he tossed the covers back, and headed into the en suite. They didn’t have one.
He needed a drink, a hot rush of haemoglobin to clear his head, wash the Michael away. Toothbrush in hand, Symon looked at himself in the mirror. Stared the blue eyes down, daring them to say shit. He was hungry. End of story. Except…Symon knew what hunger felt like, and it wasn’t this. He was uneasy, vaguely anxious, as if he’d forgotten something important. As if he was missing something.
Or someone.
Vampires had excellent hearing; Symon didn’t hear what he didn’t want to hear.
The shower head set to pummel, he tilted his head down, let the water beat at his neck and shoulders. His fist sliding over his dick, Symon made a withdrawal from his spank bank, only to find the funds low, his cock not reacting with its usual enthusiasm. Steam rising around him, he spread his legs, tightened his grip, and nothing. His cock didn’t seem to give a fuck. The picture he’d taken last night, the one of Michael with his dick in his hand and cum on his face, slid into his mind. That was all Symon saw, all he needed to see.
His voice a hoarse whisper of want, Symon breathed, “Prey,” and shot his load over the tile floor. He leaned against the wall through a recovery that took longer than he wanted to admit and watched the evidence of his orgasm disappear down the drain.
He needed a drink.
***
The Olde Angel Inn, despite its five guest rooms, was more pub than inn. Established in 1789, The Angel had been a home away from home for thirsty British soldiers back when Canada was a colony of the British Empire. Ancient himself, Symon felt comfortable with the pub’s hand-hewn beams and age-burnished wood floors.
A glass of Moosehead lager on the table in front of him, Symon scanned the room for someone he could drink. The patrons huddled around the bar watching sports on various television screens looked distressingly het, but he would make do. Blood was blood.
He focused on two men watching a football game. One bald, one getting there, both in their early forties, both carrying about thirty pounds more than they needed. Neither one of them had Michael’s height, or shoulders, or dimple.
But he wasn’t thinking about Michael.
At the rate both men were polishing off their pints, it wouldn’t be long before the necessities were necessary, and Symon could suck down his own drink. Bald dude got up from his stool first, but he was wearing a turtleneck. Symon decided to wait for Receding Hairline to take a washroom break. Turtlenecks were a pain in the ass.
Eventually, the television screen above the bar cut to talking heads sitting behind a semi-circular desk, and Receding Hairline slid off his barstool. Symon gave the guy a few minutes to get up close and personal with a urinal and followed him. The old wood steps groaning under his weight, he took the staircase down to the basement and found himself in a short hallway, an enlarged black and white photograph of London circa 1940 on his right, and two dark panelled doors on his left. Symon pushed through the door marked, Gentlemen’s Room to discover his quarry at the sink. Receding Hairline tossed a paper towel into the trash, nodding at Symon as their paths crossed in the small space.
It was easy.
One hand on the guy’s chest and Symon had him pinned to the wall. Confusion chased shock across the man’s face as he tried to figure out what the fuck was happening. “Relax,” Symon said, smiling at his dinner. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
He lied.
Yes, his fangs were designed for ease of penetration, but slicing into someone’s flesh hurt. Unlike Michael, Receding Hairline didn’t have the high of sexual arousal to distract him from the pain.
But Symon wasn’t thinking about Michael.
He pushed the human’s head to one side, sinking his teeth into taut skin. The shoulders under his hands jerked in reaction, the man’s heart bouncing about his rib cage. Symon drank the guy’s terror down. Savoured that perfect soupçon of seasoning. Receding Hairline tasted better than he looked. AB negative, a rare vintage. Symon hummed his satisfaction against the man’s skin.
The hunt never got old. Humanity was a smorgasbord of tastes and Symon liked variety. There was a time when he and Etienne had hunted together. They had made a game of it, betting on the blood types hiding inside their prey. Liquid pleasure flowing over his taste buds, Symon wondered if Etienne played that game with Andrew now.
He drank his fill, gripped the man’s chin, and looked into his eyes.
Forget.
And the memory was there, of the last time he’d sent that command.
“You’re kidding, right?” Michael asked, laughing at Symon.
But he wasn’t thinking about Michael.
Symon patted the man’s shoulder, stepped away from him. “You okay?”
“Huh?”
“These old tiles, no traction.”
Receding Hairline looked down at the black and white patterned tiles as if he’d never seen a floor before. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head, and reaching for the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Symon said to an empty room, the door swinging shut behind his dinner. The haemoglobin high dancing down every never centre in his body, Symon washed the human’s scent off his hands, and grinned at his reflection in the mirror.
Take two sips and call me in the morning.
Symon couldn’t call anyone in the morning, but who needed a doctor when they had blood?
Energy in his step, a smile on his face, Symon paid for the beer he hadn’t tasted, and strode out into the winter dark. Two blocks from the pub, Queen Street was back to small town pretty, the display tents of the Ice Wine Village packed away until next year. The clock tower stood watch over the street, its lit face a beacon in the night.
The clip clop of horseshoes had Symon stopping to watch a horse-drawn carriage wind its way along King Street. Un-fucking-real, he thought, taking in the white carriage with its string of fairy lights, the driver in hi
s top hat, and the couple curled up under a fur throw. The whole thing looked like it had been coughed up by a kid’s storybook.
No particular destination in mind, Symon walked the quiet Sunday night streets, the January night a welcome coolness against his feeding-flushed skin. The shops had closed, but the restaurants were open, people heading to or coming from dinner.
Two young men wearing neon bright ski jackets and expensive haircuts gave Symon the look as they passed. It was subtly done, Symon’s response just as subtle. A nod that meant yeah, same team and a smile that said, not interested. He would have been interested. Twenty minutes ago, before he filled up on receding hairline, he would have been very interested.
Crap timing. Symon wasn’t dissing his dinner though. The packaging had been substandard, but the meal itself? Good. He smiled thinking about the look on the guy’s face when—
What the fuck?
In Symon’s world, prey was prey. If Etienne was around and Symon was in a good mood, he’d say human, but they both knew he meant prey. Receding hairline had turned out to be a sweet taste, but he was prey. And yet, not once, not before, not during, and not after the feeding had Symon thought of the man as prey because…Michael was prey.
That little shit. I’m going to rip his fucking throat out.
Michael had done this. He’d co-opted the word prey and turned it into an endearment. Michael had made the word his own and now Symon couldn’t think of it in relation to anyone else. “Fucking dimples,” Symon muttered, realizing he’d said that out loud when a passing senior citizen looked at him as if she expected him to start shouting Bible verses. “Starbucks?” he asked, ignoring the look, his attention on the coffee cup in her hand.
“Just up the street,” the woman answered. “You better hurry, I think they close soon.”
“Thanks.”
Like every other shop on Queen Street, Starbucks had repurposed a Victorian home. Circa 1830, the Gollop House had been spruced up with yellow clapboard and green shutters, an understated nod to the Starbucks colour scheme. A simple wooden sign, lit by lanterns on either side of the front door, extended an old-fashioned welcome. New bay windows fronted the building, but the renovations had been handled with care. The original charm of the house remained.
