"You're going to crave me like I crave blood, and the next time you come calling, if you don't stop being such a bitch, maybe I *will* bite you."

Two months later she sits at her dressing table carefully applying concealer to the bite mark on her neck. It will heal by noon. It always does. Her face is a mask, beautiful yet cold, as if all emotion had drained from her with her blood.

If she cared, she'd turn a critical eye to the circles under her eyes, the sharper cut to her cheekbones and chin, the unnatural pallor.

But, she doesn't care.

She's still just going through the motions.

The only time she feels alive is when she's in his arms, and, deep inside herself she knows that's what he wants. He wants to be the only one to make her feel. The only one who understands. Because that gives him power over her, and when she's laying beneath him, or even on top of him, she's in his power. He has all control.

Hers was lost two months ago.

As the building fell around them, her resistence fell as well. With brave words she fled the next day, put up garlic and stayed awake all night holding a cross.

But, she knew it wasn't over. No matter what she said, how often she denied it to him, to herself.

It still isn't over.

Her defenses are meager at best, and after two months have simply become a show. A show he laughs at.

He enjoys the pain she gives him.

The night before, he came at midnight, brushing aside the ropes of garlic in the windows, barely wincing at the pain wrought by touching them. She held up her cross and he grabbed it, letting it burn him, laughing coldly as it did, before he flung it across the room.

Throwing her on the bed, he straddled her struggling body, catching between his fingers the consecrated silver cross she wore around her neck. Together they watched his hand smolder, acrid smoke rising to choke her, to shroud his face from her as he ripped the necklace free and dove for her neck.

As his fangs sank into her flesh, nicking the artery, sending pulses of both pain and pleasure through her, her resistence fell away, her struggles ceased. Helpless, she lay beneath him caught by her own desire, as the monster above her drank her blood and fondled her breasts with knowing hands.

He was heavy on her, but her body was made to take his weight, and she shifted slightly, parting her legs so he could rest between them. She felt his fangs recede, replaced by his tongue as he lapped roughly at the tingling twin wounds, and a shiver went through her as she imagined that tongue teasing other parts of her body.

As he moved against her, simulating sex, she grew wet, her pulse racing, her breathing quickening. His erection pressed intimately against her mound and she moaned softly, arching to him.

He chuckled, and she knew she should get angry, but the desire was too intense, and all she could do was clutch him to her. His hands roamed her body, his touch possessive and smug, and all she could do was surrender.

She didn't know anything else anymore.

One of his hands slid between them, probing between her open legs, and his crow of satisfaction at finding her hot and wet and willing, made her cringe, but her body squirmed, dancing beneath his stroking fingers.

When he kissed her, she could taste her own blood, but it no longer sickened her. She could taste his desire as well, and his love.

He loved her. She knew this. But his love was not sweet. It was not tender or gentle or even loving. It was passionate and angry and violent and possessive. For months she'd been able to deny it, to brush it aside, secure in the knowledge that she would never let him touch her, so his love for her had no meaning.

But, once she let him touch her, she should have known it would never end. Just as he had claimed after that first night, he was under her skin.

And he wasn't going away.

He would never go away.

His hands moved quickly now, unfastening his belt and removing it. Lifting his head, he looked down at her flushed face, the dazed look in her eyes, and smirked. He watched her eyes flash to the belt, saw the memories spark, and brushed the leather gently across her cheek.

He'd used it on her before, strapping her with it until she cried out in pain and bucked in pleasure, binding her with it to the bed post so he could take her violently from behind, using it as a leash around her neck to force her to her knees for his pleasure. Once he'd even let her beat him with it, but only because he wanted it. He was always the one in control.

As she shivered beneath him, he tossed the belt aside. No need for it tonight. She was open and hungry for him, and the heady scent of her desire was making him dizzy. His hands quickly freed himself, shoving the tight denim down for comfort, as her own hands yanked her t-shirt up and out of the way.

There were no panties to hinder him. She'd stopped wearing them at night after a week of having them ripped from her and sometimes used to gag her cries.

With an easy thrust he was inside her, and he groaned as she clenched around him, wonder flooding him as it always did at the feel of Slayer muscles and human heat and her own sweet wetness. Her legs rose around his hips, her body moving with his, squirming and thrusting, pelvises grinding together. His hands found hers, the fingers entwining, pressing down into the pillow on either side of her head as they moved as one.

It was always like that.

Sometimes it was so tender she wept, sometimes it was so hard and fast she shrieked, but the end result was always the same.

The pleasure was more than she had ever imagined.

Not simply the physical pleasure, although that always amazed her and left her breathless, but the pleasure of knowing she was doing something wrong, something wicked, that she was fucking a monster.

That she craved a demon's touch and kiss and bite.

The pleasure all that induced in her was perverse.

And she reveled in it.

His preternatural skill at every simple and intricate act of sex brought her to multiple orgasms until her body reached the point at which it was nearly too painful to continue. Only then did he give into his own pleasure and pound into her, her cries silenced by his mouth on hers.

And so it was the same that night as they fucked each other for hours until they were both drained and exhausted and quivering in each others arms.

When she found the strength, she raised her head and muttered, "go away," in an unconvincing voice.

And he chuckled and slid his fingers into her and readied her for more.

---

The expression on her face haunts her, and she turns away from the mirror. Rising to her feet, trying to ignore the twinges in her thigh muscles, the aching deep inside her, she dresses and prepares herself to face her friends, her sister, the world. There are bills to pay, laundry to do, groceries to purchase. Lots of little things that need to be done every day, and she'll do them.

But, she'll do them all in anticipation of the coming night, and his return.

Because she knows he'll be back. He always comes back.

And she always lets him.

 

The End

 

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