by Aimer Boyz
Michael stripped him from the waist down, chucked his clothes on the floor, and planting one knee on the bed, grabbed a fistful of Symon’s sweater. “Up.”
“What, no please?” Symon asked, sitting up and lifting his arms so Michael could drag his sweater over his head.
“Please, shut up,” Michael said, pitching Symon’s sweater. He flattened his hand on Symon’s chest, and pushed.
Symon went with it, let himself be shoved onto his back, curious to see what Michael would do next. “Shutting up.”
Michael straddled Symon, slicked his dick, and pumping more lube onto his fingers, set about prepping himself. Not that Symon wasn’t enjoying the view, but— “Somewhere you have to be?”
Those plunging fingers paused. “What?”
“What’s the rush?”
“Thought you were shutting up?”
A flash of dimple and Michael’s mouth was on his with a force Symon hadn’t expected. He’d suspected Michael could slip the leash he allowed Symon to put on him whenever he fucking felt like it. Had wondered what that would be like…
Michael’s tongue was a battering ram, claiming Symon with every stroke, searching out every taste, every depth. He found the small nodule behind one of Symon’s eye teeth, flicked his tongue at it, and Symon hummed his approval into Michael’s mouth. He tipped his head back against the pillows, giving Michael better access to that hidden source of sensation. Michael pressed harder against that small bump and Symon’s hips came off the mattress, his hands fisting in Michael’s hair. Michael ripped his mouth off Symon’s, slipped a finger between his lips, and rubbed that small patch behind his eye tooth.
Symon growled low in his throat, looked up into the fascinated grey eyes staring down at him, and grabbed Michael’s hips. He lifted Dimple man up and set him down, on his dick. He had thought to lower him slowly, to ease into his body, but Michael’s finger slid to his other eye tooth and Symon fucking lost it. His eyes bled to red, his fangs broke free, and he yanked Michael down onto his cock, impaling the man.
Michael grabbed at Symon’s arms, fingers digging into his biceps. The tight line of his mouth, the tension in his body gave Symon the control he needed to keep from breaking the man open. He forced himself to still, stroked his hands up and down Michael’s sides, waited for the tightness around the grey eyes to fade.
“Holy fuck,” Michael said, touching a fingertip to each fang. Delicate touches as if he was skimming lines of braille. “Good thing you don’t walk around looking like this, you wouldn’t be able to move for the people cluttering up the sidewalks.”
“Running for their lives?”
“No, prostrating themselves before you.”
Symon barked out a laugh. “Stay away from the history channel, they never get it right.”
“No, really. There’re psychos all over the world looking for the next messiah and you with the teeth and the eyes,” Michael said, gesturing at Symon’s vampire face. “Like some ancient Egyptian god. Oh, yeah, they’d—”
“Lunch bag let down,” Symon interrupted, testing out the expression Michael had taught him.
“What?”
Symon let his body answer that question for him, thrusting into the tight heat of Michael’s ass, and the man stopped talking. He leaned back slightly, positioning his sweet spot so that Symon couldn’t help but hit it with every stroke, and slammed his ass down taking Symon as Symon took him. One hand locked on Symon’s shoulder, Michael ignored his bouncing cock in favour of slipping a finger into Symon’s mouth, and finding a fang.
“Careful,” Symon warned. “They’re sharp.”
“Yeah,” Michael said, like he didn’t care. He pressed his finger against the tip of Symon’s fang. The merest pinprick, but it punctured the skin.
The scent of Michael’s blood, the taste of it on his tongue, and Symon’s whole body was screaming for release. He rolled them both over, shoved his cock back into the heated grip of Michael’s ass.
“Yes. God, yes.” Michael’s voice was raw, his eyes storm dark.
Symon leaned over Michael, forcing his legs back, folding the man in two. He caught Michael’s hands in his, pinned them to the mattress. He fucked him like that, keeping him hobbled, and helpless, and his.
“Please, Symon.”
The lingering taste of those few drops of blood, the desperate need in Michael’s eyes, and Symon was pounding into the man with all the power of a runaway train. What little mind he had left told him to fist Michael’s cock. A few strokes and Michael hurtled over the divide, pulling Symon with him.
They lay there, silent but for the slowing thunder of their hearts, and Michael grinned, “Any other erogenous zones you want to tell me about?”
Five nights, Symon thought, tucking himself against Michael’s side, fucking cuddling up to the man. He’d only known Michael for five nights. He shut his mind to the thought of what they could be in a month, a year…
In all his nights of chewing on humans, no one had ever fed their blood to Symon while he fucked them. Michael kept surprising him and that was a problem because he could become addicted to someone like that. Someone who made the world all shiny and new. The older Symon got, the more he was aware of the essential irony of the night life; a vampire’s greatest blessing was also his greatest curse. As the centuries piled on top of each other, time turned from friend to foe. Boredom killed more vampires than Van Helsing ever had, and Michael was one serious fucking antidote to boredom. Right from that first night— “That first night, in the elevator, and later when I was feeding, you read my mind.”
Michael sighed. “I didn’t do it on—”
“Yeah, I know.” Symon pushed off Michael, propped himself up on an elbow so he could see Michael’s face. “Here’s what I don’t get. That first night, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t even know you had been inside my head, but when I let you in to my mind to show you why we don’t need condoms—”
“You mean when you let me into your head to see if I was full of shit?”
“Yeah, then,” Symon said, all grin and no remorse. “I knew you were there that time. I felt trapped, pinned to the wall?”
Michael shrugged. “It’s the eyes.”
“In English?”
“Eye contact, makes it intense.”
Symon sat up, tucking the duvet around him. His mind worked better with his dick under wraps. “So, in the elevator?”
“You were standing behind me. No eye contact.”
“And when I was feeding…” Symon said, thinking out loud.
“Your face was buried in my neck.”
“Yeah. Weird that it only happens when I touch your neck. That doesn’t—”
The grey eyes dropped away from Symon’s. “Don’t freak out,” Michael said, sitting up.
“You little shit. It’s not just your neck, is it?”
“No,” Michael said, his voice so low only a vampire could hear it.
“Every time I touched you,” Symon said, holding his hands out in front of him as if they weren’t his, as if he’d never seen them before. “Every fucking time?” He heard himself yelling, but he knew that couldn’t be him because Symon Bradewey didn’t yell. He didn’t yell because the world did what he fucking told it to.
Michael said something, but Symon couldn’t hear him. He could barely see him through the fury eating his brain. Images attacked him, he and Michael on this bed, on the couch in the other room, at the Gala. The memories fuelled the anger, the anger Symon needed because he couldn’t handle what was underneath it. “Get out.”
“No.”
It hurt. It cut Symon open, that determined look in Michael’s grey eyes, the stubborn tilt of his chin, the bravery Symon had once admired. “Michael,” he said, uncurling himself from the duvet, and climbing out of bed. “Leave.”
Michael got out of bed, but he didn’t leave. He walked around the foot of the bed to stand in front of Symon, reached out to—
Symon wasn’t there. “Like I
’m going to let you touch me,” Symon said, from the other side of the room. “Not bloody likely.” He nodded at the open bedroom door. “Bye.”
“Fine. I’m going,” Michael said, but he didn’t. He looked around, saw his briefs lying on the floor, and pulled them on. “You’re not mad, you’re scared.”
“Right,” Symon snorted. “I’m scared of a human.”
Michael zipped his jeans up, tugged his socks on. “You might not be afraid of a human, but you’re afraid of this,” he said, tapping his temple. “Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I thought you’d be different,” he added, shoving his feet into boots he didn’t bother to lace up. “You know, with the fangs and the blood, but you’re just like everyone else.” He strode towards the doorway, scooping up his sweater on the way. “Chicken shit.”
What the fuck?
Michael had turned the tables on him so fast Symon had whip lash, but he wasn’t a coward and he wasn’t wrong. Michael was the one who should be in the penalty box here.
Michael grabbed his parka off the couch and found Symon standing between him and the door. “Move.”
“Reality check: You lied to me. You fucking invaded my mind. You screwed up, not me.”
“I didn’t tell you everything, but I didn’t lie to you.”
“Oh, nice distinction. I feel so much better. Fuck you.”
“Jesus, Symon,” Michael said, punching his arms into the sleeves of his parka. “I never said it was only my neck, you’re the one who came up with that.”
“No. You’re not blaming this on me, asshole. You should have told me.”
“You’re right. I should have, but I didn’t because I know how this goes, and because it didn’t matter.”
“Didn’t matter? Every time we touched each other you stole my thoughts.”
“I didn’t,” Michael said, shaking his head as he zipped his jacket up. “I told you that first night, sitting right there,” he said, pointing at the couch. “I don’t break into someone’s mind while they’re shaking my hand.” He tilted his chin, met Symon’s eyes head-on. “I never read your mind when we fucked.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
Michael brought his hands up and let them drop. The gesture saying what they both knew to be true, there was nothing he could say to make Symon believe him.
“Yes.”
Chapter 15
CHUNKS OF SILENCE piling up between them, Symon finally got that Michael had said everything he was going to say. Symon was supposed to believe him based on what, his fucking dimple?
Not that Michael was flashing that dimple now. No dimple. No smile. Michael’s face was set in waiting-for-biopsy-results serious. His grey eyes bored into Symon’s, willing Symon to believe him, but he didn’t say anything else. And because he didn’t, Symon believed him. He was perverse like that. Okay, yes, he believed Michael hadn’t skipped around inside his head while they were rolling about on the hotel bed, but he could have, and it pissed him off that he hadn’t known that. “I’m going to break you open and dine on your heart.”
“Thank God.” Michael dropped to his knees, wrapped himself around Symon, cradling his face against Symon’s stomach. “I was so fucking scared. I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Me neither,” Symon said, threading his fingers through Michael’s hair.
Michael sat back on his heels, looked up at Symon. “Why?”
“Must be the dimple,” Symon said, tapping Michael’s cheek.
It wasn’t the dimple. Symon hadn’t thought about it before, but every time Michael walked into this hotel room, he put his life in Symon’s hands. He knew what Symon was and he trusted him anyway. How could Symon do less?
“Totally worth all the shit the guys gave me in grade school,” Michael said, getting to his feet.
“They teased you about a dimple?”
“Oh, you know,” Michael said, pitching his voice higher. “Hey, Micky. What’s with your face?”
“Micky?”
Michael crowded into Symon’s space, looming over him. “Not my name, Fido.”
Symon had to smile because Michael pretending to be big and bad was just too adorable. He had the height and he had the shoulders, he did an impressive combination of menacing face and threatening voice, but it was the eyes. There was no predator behind Michael’s eyes. It wasn’t in him.
“Got it. No Micky, but you’re okay with Prey?”
“Well, yeah,” Michael said, powering down the fake intimidation. “Prey doesn’t make me feel like I’m five years old. It makes me feel…”
“Hunted?” Symon suggested. “Stalked?” he added, stepping forward, and smiling when Michael stepped back. “Desired?”
Michael swallowed; Symon heard his heart rate pick up. “Yeah.”
“Lose the coat.”
“We’re good?” Michael asked, unzipping his parka.
“Getting there,” Symon said, moving forward, forcing Michael to move back. “Anything else you don’t want to tell me?”
“About the mind reading? No,” Michael said, dropping his parka, and backing through the open doorway to the bedroom. “That was it.”
Symon had only meant the mind reading, but the way Michael phrased his answer made him wonder. “Anything else you don’t want to tell me,” he asked, holding Michael by the hips, steering him to the bed directly behind him, “about anything?”
“Sure,” Michael said, sitting on the bed, and spreading his legs for Symon to stand between them.
“What do you mean, sure?” Symon asked, tugging Michael’s sweater up, and off.
“I’ve known you what, five, six days? Of course, there’s stuff I don’t want to tell you.”
“Like what?”
Michael laughed. “Nice try.”
“Worth a shot,” Symon said, stepping back so Michael could stand. Michael kicked off the boots he’d never gotten around to lacing, glanced at Symon as he shoved at his jeans, and burst out laughing.
“What?” Symon asked.
“You’re naked.”
“Yeah,” Symon said, looking down at his own body. “So?”
“Guess you really didn’t want me to leave, huh?” Michael said, sinking down onto the bed. “If you chased after me naked.”
“Because you pissed me off.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We still have time before the sun knocks the life out of me,” Symon said, deciding to ignore the look that said he was full of shit. “How do you feel about restraints?”
“You want to tie me up?”
“Rhodes Scholar, huh?”
“Degenerate.”
That wasn’t a no.
Symon headed for the closet and the complimentary robes the hotel provided with the exorbitant room charge, asking himself with every step just what the fuck he thought he was doing? Since when did he muck about with bondage?
Since Michael.
This past week, Symon had been happy. It had been so long since he’d opened his eyes to the night with a smile on his face that he hadn’t even known he was unhappy.
He knew now.
He was alive again because of Michael. So, yes, he was going to faff about with bondage or anything else that made his human happy. He was going to hold hands, and cuddle, and play temporary boyfriend, because Michael had a fucking dimple. Yeah, that was why.
A heavy, much-painted affair with a glass doorknob, the closet door didn’t open or close easily. Symon wrestled the crabby slab of wood into submission, pushed his own clothes aside, and found the white robes bearing the hotel logo. He tugged the sashes off the robes and returned to his prey.
Michael took one look at the long strips of soft, white cotton and shifted himself into the centre of the bed. On his back, he held his arm out, watching as Symon tied one of the sashes around his wrist. Symon read anticipation on Michael’s face, saw a shit-ton of come-fuck-me in his eyes, but not a hint of hesitancy. None. Michael had complete faith in him.
It struck Symon, as he secured Michael’s arms to the bedposts, that the restraints weren’t just about Michael. Yes, he’d thought Michael would like them, but the idea had been his. It was ironic, he supposed, or symbolic, depending on how you looked at it. He was tying Michael down because he couldn’t keep him.
Symon checked the knots, made sure the bindings wouldn’t cut off Michael’s circulation. “Comfortable?”
Michael tugged on his bonds. “Not the word I’d use.”
Symon laughed. “No?”
Michael looked good lying there tied to the Victorian posts of the hotel bed. Long legs, narrow hips, and a cock that was already filling, lifting itself out of the dark curls at Michael’s groin. His chest was a sculpted thing of beauty, but it was the muscles in the arms stretched above his head that caught Symon’s attention. It was a compelling image, the obvious strength in the bulge of triceps juxtaposed against the helplessness of his captive wrists. The strength that Michael allowed Symon to tether and curb. The strength he gifted to Symon along with his trust.
Stretched out on top of his prey, looking into those grey eyes, Symon couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was as tied to Michael as Michael was to the bed. That thought didn’t seem anywhere near as scary as it should have.
“You’re not listening on all frequencies, are you?” Symon asked.
“ESP’s in sleep mode. I’m not picking up anything.”
“Good.”
Symon rocked his hips. Nothing major, a simple thing, just a kiss of his cock against Michael’s, but it sent a message and Michael groaned.
“Oh, shit. You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Vampire, not necrophiliac.”
With lips, and tongue, and fingertips Symon learned the different textures of Michael. One centimetre of skin at a time, he worked his way south. Played his tongue in the hollows beneath Michael’s hip bones, rubbed his face against the taut abdomen. He breathed Michael in, nuzzling into the hair at his groin—
“It’s okay,” Michael said. “Take your time. I get that you’re new at this.”
Symon laughed and, rolling off Michael, propped himself up on one elbow. He trailed his fingers up the inside of Michael’s thigh. High, and higher, but never high enough. Michael was righter than he knew. Symon was new at this; whatever this was he was doing with Michael. Dating? Vampires didn’t date. “We don’t do this.”
