"I
call him Arian."
"I
call you queer as a football bat."
Vincent
shot his best friend a scowling glance that
could curdle milk; Brice simply laughed it
off.
"Dirty
looks or no, I stand by my conclusion,"
Brice teased, his smile coaxing the same from
his stoic friend. Vincent turned back to his
newest painting, still on the oak easel. The
paint was barely dry.
"I
honestly don't know what inspired me,"
he mused, "but he's my best piece
yet."
Brice
chuckled, "oh, I'd have to agree-he's
definitely sexy. I'd do 'im." Vincent
refrained from pointing out that Brice would
do anyone-providing they looked good and had
a dick. He couldn't begin to count how many
times in the last ten years that Brice has
come onto to him-and he was his best friend.
Brice
came up and stood beside Vincent to study the
painting. It was a very simple composition
using Vincent's preferred medium-acrylics. It
was a portrait of a man-strong, defined
features, coal black hair to his waist,
slender build, and the most piercing green
eyes that Brice had ever seen. Of all his
friend's paintings, he had to
admit-"Arian" was the best.
"You
gonna put him in the gallery opening
exhibit?"
Vincent
was one of five featured artists in the new
DuLane Fine Arts Museum's Opening Exhibit.
Five artists, each specializing in a
particular medium, were picked from a pool of
over two hundred in the city of Boston:
Katelin Randall for oils, Michael Tarin for
watercolors, Tara Marks for pastels, Jonathon
Jacobs for charcoal, and Vincent Matthews for
acrylics.
"Most
likely," Vincent said, still studying
the finished portrait. Straight or gay, Brice
was right-"Arian" was handsome, in
a feral sort of way.
"You
talked to Lisa today, didn't you?"
Vincent didn't turn to or answer his friend;
Brice took his silence for the affirmative
answer that it was. "I take it she's
still intent on trying to win you back."
It wasn't a question.
"Yea,
what else is new," was Vincent's reply.
Short and curt-his general mood when the
subject was Lisa. "She still claims
ignorance due to drunkenness. I told her to
give it up-she wasn't drunk. I was there at
the damned party. Hell, she had to drive me
home. She told me she's sorry, but that
doesn't quiet get the image of your fiancé
bent over the kitchen table out of your mind,
especially when you happen to be standing to
the side in the doorway. My God, everyone
knew what was going on before I ever stepped
foot in there."
"Personally,
I don't know what you saw in her to begin
with, Vince."
Vincent
cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "You're
gay, Brice. You've never even kissed a woman,
so you're view is a bit skewed, if not
totally biased." Brice's thin lips
upturned into a rather sheepish grin.
"Yea
well," Brice said with a shrug.
"Damn, it's nearly three. I need to get
going, dude. Catch you after work for a few
drinks? I'll get home around seven."
Vincent nodded without taking his gaze off
the painting. Brice clapped his hand on his
friend's shoulder and left the studio.
Vincent
took the painting from the easel and leaned
it up against the wall. He was impressed at
how well he did the eyes-the verdant gaze
seemed to follow him as he moved around the
studio that also served as his apartment.
Loft it was, really: a vast expanse of
openness, with two doors-one leading into the
bathroom, and the other leading to the
hallway outside. When he bought the place, it
was nothing but a large open room with a
single bathroom and a kitchen. His bed sat on
the wall to the right of the front door; its
canopied sides and top the only means of
privacy. Across from it was the open kitchen,
with a dining area to the right, dominated by
a heavy oak table with six chairs and a tall
curio cabinet containing all sorts of odd
memorabilia: plaster skulls, coffin incense
burners, dragon statues, and the like.
His
favorite piece was a red dragon clutching a
crystal ball as it sat perched on a rock. Its
scaly hide was a deep crimson, while its
lighter underbelly was the rich red shade of
vermillion. His living area was nothing but a
black leather sofa and recliner with a
mahogany coffee table and a rather large
screen TV sitting on the floor. Various art
magazines lay in an arcing fan across the
lacquered top of the table: Artist's
Magazine, ARTNews, ArtNexus, Smithsonian,
Watercolor Magic, along with a couple copies
of Maxim and Rolling Stone. Thus was the
whole of his home, aside from the corner
which served as his studio.
The
walls of the loft were decorated with both
his own works and works of such artists as
Salvador Dali, Boris Vallejo, and Luis Royo.
The lighting was bright and fluorescent,
which aided his work. He was exceptionally
neat for a bachelor, which amazed Brice to no
end, who was used to the clutter of his
college dorm room.
Vincent
sat down in the recliner with a glass of
water and levered the footrest up. Outside,
the clouds hung in varying masses of
gray-rain, or very possibly a thunderstorm,
was inevitable. He set the glass on the
coffee table and leaned back, closing his
eyes from the painfully brilliant light above
him. The "Arian" painting had taken
him nearly three weeks to finish-the strokes
falling from some otherworldly inspiration he
couldn't pin down. He was known for his more
abstract and surreal works, but
"Arian" was a first. He knew not
what had inspired him to set down the first
stroke, but once paint hit canvas, the colors
and lines flowed out of him in a steady,
determined manner. He opened his eyes and
glanced over at the drying portrait and
shuddered-it was definitely unique.
***
A
tremendous crash of thunder startled Vincent
awake. He looked at his watch: six-thirty.
Shit. Brice would be home in half an hour,
which gave Vincent that long to get ready.
When Brice wanted to go out for a drink, he
really meant he wanted to go clubbing, which
invariably ended up with the two of them
mingling in one alternative club or another.
A new goth club had opened two weeks ago, and
he recalled Brice mentioning it. That's
probably where they would end up tonight.
Vincent
pushed the footrest down and stood,
stretching his arms out, the muscles bulging
beneath his black t-shirt. If a goth club was
where they were headed, then he would
certainly look the part tonight, forgoing his
usual jeans and t-shirt for something a bit
more...sensual and provocative. Two months
had passed since the incident with Lisa,
which resulted in Vincent's prompt breaking
off of their year-long engagement. Christ, he
had known her for three years, and in one
night, she threw it all away. He grumbled as
he went into the bathroom; he refused to let
those dredged up memories get in his way of
enjoying himself tonight. Hell, even recluses
need human interaction at some point.
He
leaned over and turned on the shower, slid
his jeans and t-shirt off and stepped in. The
steaming water was a welcome relief, washing
away all thoughts of Lisa, leaving him
refreshed and in high spirits. As he lathered
his chest, his wrist brushed his left nipple
and a fresh wave of longing roused in him. He
hadn't been with anyone but Lisa in three
years, and the past two months, he had been
with no one at all. He moved his wrist over
his nipple again, causing it to harden.
Leaning against the shower wall, he let the
water pummel his chest and cascade down his
chiseled abs. He ran his right hand down his
chest, over his stomach, and down to his
newly-awakened cock.
Gods,
it had been so long since he had even had the
desire to touch himself. He circled the shaft
and drew his hand from the base to the tip in
long, slow, fluid strokes. He caressed his
chest with his left hand, pinching his
nipple, gritting his teeth at the exquisitely
painful sensation. The delivering of pain was
something that Lisa never seemed to get into,
and his only outlet was the delightfulness of
his own touch--how he longed to feel
another's hands on his body--touching...
teasing... biting... stroking... pinching.
He
increased the pressure of his palm, which in
turn increased the rate at which his heart
beat in his chest. What had gotten him so
worked up? A mere brush of his wrist could
not have done this-his once-stoic demeanor
had been replaced by sheer wanton lust,
driven by the same force that had spurred his
hand on while painting "Arian."
"Arian."
The name became a whisper-a breathy
groan-that fell from his lips. The image in
his mind became clear: lips upon lips, flesh
to naked flesh, hands creating havoc within
his soul. He closed his eyes and breathed
deep, his body shuddered slightly, then his
knees gave way, bringing him down on them on
the floor of the bathtub. His body tensed and
he gripped the edge of the tub with his left
hand; his right hand pumped up and down his
painfully hard cock in a flurry of long
strokes. He grit his teeth as the water
pounded against his back, and, with a
guttural groan unlike anything that had ever
escaped him before, his cock convulsed in his
hand, lathering his palm in a milky white
torrent of ecstasy.
For
several moments, Vincent lay in the tub, his
back pressed to the side, the water a
soothing relief to the lingering fire that
burned within him. Then the realization of
what had happened hit him. His eyes flew open
as a chill ran through him. He wasn't gay--he
had absolutely no desire in men--yet...it was
the likeness of a man...the fantasy...that
brought about the most intense orgasm of his
life thus far. He stood quickly and finished
washing, careful to avoid any lazy, wayward
brushes of any sensitive body part.
As he
stepped out, his chestnut hair lay plastered
to his back, several inches longer than its
usual wavy shoulder length. He dried quickly,
certain that it was nearing seven. All the
while, in the back of his mind, lingered the
knowledge of what had happened. It was
something he couldn't shake, no matter what
he tried to think of. While they never kept
secrets from each other, this is one that he
wouldn't share even with Brice, and not
because of the inevitable teasing, but
because it burned into the core of his being
with an intensity he didn't understand.
Black
leather pants, a black fishnet shirt, his
black boots. He stood looking into the
full-length mirror beside his bed. He pulled
his hair back into a loose ponytail, securing
it with a black ribbon. Around his neck, he
buckled a black vinyl collar. Even in the
brightness of the loft lights, he was still a
sight to behold, even at the age of
twenty-eight. His full lips curled into a wry
grin--perhaps he could find some company
tonight. After the episode in the shower, he
desperately needed to touch a woman, if only
to reassure himself that he wasn't gay.
Christ. Had that really happened?
He
pulled on his black leather jacket and,
turning out the lights, shut the loft door
behind him. The hallway was dimly lit by
small wall lamps running down either side in
an alternating pattern. He moved through the
hall with determination; yes, he needed to
find a woman. Plain and simple. The chill of
the October night air bit into his flesh as
he stepped outside, and he drew his jacket
tighter around him as he headed for Brice's
dorm. Convenience led him to find a loft
close to the campus. Not only was he closer
to Brice, but the campus bookstore had a fine
art supply section that he frequented so much
as to become friends with most of the
students who worked the counter.
Brice
was waiting for him, leaning up against his
blue Acura with an amused expression. Could
he tell? Was the knowledge written upon
Vincent's face in some form, visible only to
a gay man?
"What?"
he asked Brice as he neared the car.
"You look like you should have canary
feathers sticking out of your mouth."
"Nothing,
really. It just amazes me to no end how you
read my mind, or so it seems. How did you
know what I had in mind tonight?"
Vincent
shrugged. "I've known you long enough.
Besides, you mentioned wanting to go to Danse
Macabre two weeks ago. I kind of figured
that's where we'd end up eventually, if not
immediately."
Brice
smiled, "yep. You ready?"
"Yes,
I'm getting lonely." Brice raised an
eyebrow. "Don't get your hopes up, man.
I'm in desperate need of a woman." A
disappointed, but no less amused, smile
graced Brice's boyish face. He was dressed in
black as well, but his personal style was
more of the bohemian, cafe-haunting type, as
opposed to Vincent's overtly sensual
appearance. While he shared Vincent's love of
leather pants, his shirt was less revealing:
a black, long-sleeved shirt with a row of
skull buttons up to his neck, although he
left the first two unbuttoned, exposing the
smooth flesh of his chest. His short black
hair was spiked slightly, the tips extending
a full inch off the top of his head. A large
stainless steel ring hung in his right ear, a
tiny pink triangle stud sat in the hole above
it.
***
The
club was as decadent as Vincent imagined it
would be. The front room, complete with a
coat check, was carpeted in thick crimson.
The walls were wallpapered in a Victorian
print of deep red roses and gilded ribbons.
Vincent couldn't help but let a gasp escape
his lips as he looked up: a chandelier,
almost as big as his television, hung from
the plastered ceiling, pouring a soft, white
light down into the room.
The
main room of the club--the dance floor, bar,
tables, booths, and DJ booth--was much the
same as the front room, with the exception
being the dance floor, which was a hard
ceramic tile. Bodies were pressed against
each other in varying states of dress or
undress, depending on the circumstances at
the time. The DJ, nestled in a small box
above and behind the dance floor, groaned
into the microphone as he slapped the next
song on: "Closer" by Nine Inch
Nails. How fucking appropriate, Vincent
thought to himself as he slid into a booth. A
few moments later, Brice came over with a
bottle of some unpronounceable German beer
for himself, and a Hurricane for Vincent.
"So,
what do you think?" Brice near shouted
over the steady beat and Trent Reznor's
sultry crooning.
"Definitely
nice," Vincent said, sipping on his
drink. Brice killed his beer in three huge
swallows and grinned.
"Got
your pager?" Vincent held up the small
black beeper in response. "Cool, beep me
or I'll beep you." Vincent nodded and
Brice left the table, sliding onto the dance
floor like a cat in search of prey. The
beepers were their source of communication;
they were able to page each other with a
touch of a button. Vincent lost sight of
Brice and shook his head--Brice wouldn't be
going home alone tonight.
A
steady stream of people flowed in through the
double doors of the front room and Vincent
watched them and the crowd in the main room,
but no one really caught his interest. He
took another sip of his Hurricane, and as he
lowered the empty cup from his lips, a truly
terrifying sight--that suffused his flesh
with a burning desire while causing his blood
to run cold--greeted him through the clear
plastic bottom. There, in the doorway between
the front room and the club, his verdant gaze
riveted on the artist, stood Vincent's
masterpiece come to life. Vincent set the cup
down slowly, unable to tear his gaze away
from the man across the room.
A
warning signaled in Vincent's mind. Run. Run
now before he can get to you. But before
thought and reason could form into the
command, before his legs could react, the
alluring figure closed the distance between
them. Predator and prey.
"Noswaith
dda." Vincent's brows knitted together
in momentary confusion. "Good
evening." The man's voice was as rich
and thick as the raven hair that flowed to
his waist. His lips curled into a sultry
grin.
"Who
are you?" Vincent's voice broke as the
man came closer, too close.
"You
know who I am, Vincent. My likeness rests
against your living room wall."
"Arian."
The sultry smile widened.
Vincent
swallowed hard as Arian leaned close to him,
their lips mere inches apart. The scent of
him suffused the artist's senses; deadly lust
lingered in the scant air between the two of
them. Waves of ebony fell over the table,
tickling Vincent's hands and sending flickers
of promises--of pleasure, pain, love--into
his mind, overriding reason. This man,
whoever he was, was danger in its most primal
form.
"Open
your mouth for me, Vincent," Arian
whispered, the sound more feral than any
human voice could ever dream to replicate.
When Vincent didn't respond, Arian's lips
curled into a menacing grin and slender
fingers wrapped themselves tightly in
Vincent's hair. Arian pulled his head back at
a painful angle and leaned closer. "Open
your mouth for me." It wasn't a request;
it was a command. Unable to resist, Vincent's
lips parted nearly of their own accord.
A
flicker of primal heat licked at his flesh as
Arian's tongue snaked out to brush the inside
of Vincent's mouth. As their lips met, the
flicker grew into a roaring flame that
threatened to consume Vincent in its fiery
hold. Arian's tongue brushed alongside his
own, caressing it in circles; his
scent--inherently male and animalistic--was
intoxicating. Though they touched nowhere
else but lips upon lips, and Arian's hand in
his hair, Vincent felt the man's hands all
over him. His flesh burned with the imagined
contact. When Arian broke the kiss, Vincent
mortified himself by allowing an involuntary
groan of disappointment to escape his lips.
"Come,"
Arian commanded, and Vincent obeyed, unable
to do so much as think about resistance. The
beeper hung on his hip unused, but as he
followed Arian out of the club, the shocked
gaze of Brice found him through the mass of
bodies. No beeper would be sounding tonight.
***
Vincent
trembled with an array of emotions-fear,
desire, anticipation-as he unlocked the door
to the loft. Arian followed him silently
through the door, then as it closed behind
them, he gripped Vincent's hair again and
forced him to his knees. Emerald eyes bored
into Vincent, setting his groin on fire and
piercing into his soul. Arian towered over
him with a presence that demanded one thing:
submission.
"You
are mine." The words sunk into Vincent's
mind like a lead weight thrown into the sea.
"What
have I done?" His voice was no more than
a whisper.
"You
called me."
"But
how? I-I simply painted a portrait. I didn't
know-"
Arian
placed a finger to Vincent's lips, commanding
silence with naught but the slightest touch.
"Your desire called me. And I
answered."
"Are-are
you real? Or simply a figment of an
overworked imagination?" Arian placed
the finger he had used to silence Vincent
into his own mouth and bit down. A gasp
escaped Vincent's lips at the act and he
started to draw back when Arian lowered the
finger to his lips. A small trickle of blood
rose to the surface and dripped from the
puncture wound. Vincent's gaze shot back up
at Arian's face, and for the first time, he
noticed the glint of white that extended
beyond where any normal man's canine would
have gone.
"Oh
my god," he whispered hoarsely. Arian's
lips curled into a sultry, deadly grin as he
tightened his grip on Vincent's hair. He ran
his bloodied finger over Vincent's lips,
causing the artist's heartbeat to increase
exponentially. The silence of the room was
deafening. The air between them was alive.
"I'm
real enough to bleed, cariad." The Welsh
endearment was the one thing Vincent knew,
and the word coming from the lips of the
creature standing over him was enough to send
a shudder of fear up his spine. Love, Arian
had said.
Arian
pulled Vincent to his feet and backed up
against the wall, the artist's hair still in
his iron grip. "Touch me," he
commanded. Vincent knew what he meant, and
his hesitation was rewarded with a feral
growl from Arian and a violent tug on his
hair, sending him to his knees with a jolt of
pain. His face was inches from the zipper on
Arian's jeans. The man's hold tightened on
Vincent's hair, reminding him of the command.
Vincent
winced, and with trembling fingers, unzipped
Arian's jeans. With his free hand, Arian
pushed them down to his ankles, and much to
Vincent's horrified surprise, no barrier
stood between his lips and the rigid cock in
front of him. With a groan, Arian pulled
Vincent to him, his entire length
disappearing down Vincent's throat. Vincent
panicked and gagged, but Arian held him
tight.
"Relax
your throat," Arian whispered, the
command no less intense for the lust
thickening his voice. Vincent tried to do as
he was told, and as he calmed himself, Arian
began to move his hips. "That's
it," Arian whispered again,
"slow..."
Arian's
groans of pleasure stirred Vincent's own
desires to life, creating a painful situation
in his leather pants. Arian released his grip
on Vincent's hair and cupped his head with
his hands, pulling the artist's face forward
to meet his thrusts, then pushing back as he
withdrew. With a movement that was damn near
involuntary, Vincent gripped Arian's hips and
pulled him closer, swallowing the length of
his cock. Arian tightened his hold on
Vincent's head, and with a guttural growl,
thrust deep inside his mouth, his body
convulsing in the manic throes of his orgasm.
Vincent choked as Arian's cock erupted in his
mouth, forcing every last drop down his
throat. As the man's clenched muscles
loosened and relaxed, he pulled Vincent to
his feet and attacked his mouth with savage
intensity.
"I
want you inside me," Vincent whispered
breathlessly on Arian's lips, even as the
mortification of what he was saying settled
into his brain. Arian's viciously sexy smile
turned cruel. Vincent gasped as those lips
covered his.
"Do
you have any idea what you ask?"
Within
the verdant depths of Arian's eyes, Vincent
saw what awaited him should he take the step
into oblivion: pain as sweet as any wine,
pleasure as addictive as any drug. With a
shudder that stole up his spine and a carnal
grind from Arian's hips, Vincent knew there
was no turning back.
"Yes,"
he answered breathlessly.
"By
taking me into you, you give up what freedom
you once had. You are mine, and by sex and
blood, we will be bound. Whatever I want, I
will take...and you will freely give."
Arian
pulled Vincent's head back, exposing the
tender flesh of his throat.
"With
every thrust, I will become a part of
you...until you no longer know where I end
and you begin."
He
flicked his tongue across the supple flesh.
"With
every drop of blood, I will bind you to me
for all time."
He
kissed the nape of Vincent's neck, where
shoulder meets throat.
"My
name will be the benediction, uttered with
every scream that escapes your lips." He
nipped lightly; Vincent's body tensed.
"Is this what you want, Vincent?"
"Yes."
Vincent
felt the curl of lips into a smile, then the
searing, excruciating pain of teeth piercing
flesh. He sucked in a deep breath, bit his
lower lip until it bled, and gripped Arian's
head, pulling him closer. His fingers
entwined themselves within the silky raven
locks as he felt Arian's gentle, demanding
pull, from his feet to his head. Sweet
oblivion.
"Arian,"
Vincent whispered, "please...I need
you...I need to feel you." Arian
withdrew from his neck and gazed into his
eyes. Vincent's heart beat furiously in his
chest, quickened by the sight of his own
blood. His tongue slid absently across his
lips.
"I
will take you to the heights of desire...to
the depths of depravity that reside in the
human soul...but I will not give you what you
seek yet," Arian whispered on Vincent's
lips.
His
tongue snaked out to taste the trace of blood
and a guttural groan escaped his throat. When
Vincent opened his mouth, straining for a
kiss, Arian pulled away.
"What
am I, Vincent?"
"You
are my lover."
"No,
I am not." Vincent looked longingly at
Arian, his confusion clear. "I am your
Master."
The
weight of the word was not lost on
Vincent--in all his wildest, darkest dreams,
this was the one thing he craved...like a
starving man craves food, he craved this--to
walk along the fine edge between pleasure and
pain...to be led by nerves alone along the
razor-sharp edge of the deadliest knife the
human soul could conjure. Oblivion awaited
him...and it was only a kiss away, disguised
in the ultimate predator.
"Am
I to be your slave then?"
Arian
flicked his tongue across the swollen,
red-stained lips before him and whispered,
"you are my slave." Another flick
of his tongue. "Tell me my
name...pray."
"Arian."
A prayer it was...a benediction...the
breathless sigh that formed into one thought,
one word: Master.
Arian
closed his mouth over Vincent's, the fury of
his passion barely skimming the surface. And
Vincent drew him in, drawing his breath from
Arian's lungs, feeling the faint traces of
what lay beneath. His head swam with the
thought--this power...this man...they would
consume him...consume his soul. He wrapped
his arms tighter around Arian's neck and
pulled him close, deepening what could scarce
be deepened. He felt the barriers holding
Arian's power straining to keep
control...fighting to keep the dangerous fury
in check. Here was Death. And he was Death's
slave.
Arian
broke the kiss and, taking Vincent's hand in
his, walked to the bed. With a gentle brush
of his hand, the curtains parted and he
pushed Vincent down on his back. He sat on
the bed beside him and Vincent's body tensed
under his touch as his fingers trailed along
his neck, over his chest. He took Vincent's
left nipple between his thumb and index
finger and pinched it lightly. The sharp
intake of breath brought a deadly grin to his
face. He leaned down and replaced his fingers
with his teeth, rolling the tender morsel
between them, biting down with a steady
pressure. Vincent winced and gripped Arian's
head; his hips rose off the bed. Sweet fire
of torment.
"Arian."
Arian
released him and rose from the bed. Vincent
watched, the blue of his eyes glazed over
with pure desire, as Arian unbuttoned his
shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders to land
in a white silken mound at his feet. He
crawled between Vincent's legs with the slow,
graceful movements of a cat stalking its
prey. Vincent's breath caught in his
throat--he was that prey. With equal
nimbleness, Arian unbuttoned the leather
pants and slid them down Vincent's legs. He
grinned as it became obvious that Vincent was
not one to wear anything beneath. As the
pants slid over his hips, Vincent's cock
stood erect, begging to be touched. Arian
tossed the pants in the floor and stretched
his lithe body over Vincent's, the length of
his own cock nestled between Vincent's legs.
Vincent
drew his legs up, allowing Arian to nestle
deeper between them. Silken waves of ebony
draped over him, brushing his chest through
the fishnet. With a movement that he barely
noticed, Arian shifted and the head of his
cock pressed against Vincent.
"Arian,
I--"
"Shh...cariad,"
Arian murmured against Vincent's lips. He
cupped Vincent's head in an iron grip, and in
the same second that he covered Vincent's
mouth with his, he slipped inside. Vincent
clawed at Arian's shoulders, certain that he
would die from the pain that ripped through
him. When Arian finally stopped, his full
length buried deep inside Vincent, he kissed
the artist's trembling lips. With every kiss,
he drew out Vincent's pain and suffused him
with a fire that licked his flesh and burned
deeper still...into his soul. When Vincent's
whimpers of pain became soft, near inaudible
moans of deepening pleasure, Arian began to
move.
Slow at
first...long, slow strokes. He withdrew to
the tip, then slid back in. With every fluid
thrust, Vincent felt the fire build up inside
him.
The
game...the pursuit...continued...Arian's name
becoming naught but breathless whispers,
falling from Vincent's lips with every
stroke. Arian's torso grazed across Vincent's
cock, teasing him to the edge, then refusing
him release, until Vincent was sure he would
die in the man's arms from the sheer torture.
The fire consumed him...Arian's passion
consumed him...and in a torrent like no
other, his own passion ultimately consumed
him.
"Arian!"
Arian
covered Vincent's mouth with his own. Vincent
screamed and gripped Arian's shoulders, tight
enough to cause pain...sweet pain...and Arian
let him slip over the edge. Vincent's body
tightened, then bucked violently beneath
Arian as his ecstasy overloaded him. As if
the tidal wave from Vincent broke through a
dam, Arian drew in a deep breath and growled
into Vincent's mouth as his own orgasm
struck. With every heated thrust, he buried
himself deeper, coating the inside of
Vincent's body with his release. The flames
licked at his own skin, and consumed them
both, sealing the bond between them.
As the
waves that lapped at their cores lessened to
ripples, Arian kissed Vincent
sweetly...deeply. Vincent drank him in...lost
in him...slave to his danger.
"You
are mine." Arian's whisper reached into
the core of Vincent's being.
