His eyes change with his moods.
When he's deep inside me, straining, on the edge of release, they're as dark as night, a rich indigo that reflects no light.
When he's frustrated, they're stormy grey, snapping with flashes of golden lightning.
When he's infuriated, they turn to ice. Not clear, but grey and cold and hard. They send shivers down my spine and chill me to the bone.
His eyes are rarely blue. Blue eyes mean he's happy, and he's very rarely happy. Sometimes in the aftermath, when I'm sprawled on top of him, I'll look up and see him watching me from soft blue eyes. After his orgasm, they usually go rather hazy, sleepy and replete.
And just a bit happy.
There are lots of other colors in his eyes at different times. Sometimes they're teal or greyish blue or greenish blue. I'm learning to tell what he's feeling from the color of his eyes. Eyes hidden behind thick, luxurious lashes.
I wonder if he knows that his eyes betray his emotions? Am I the only one who sees that?
His eyes reflect all that he is. In those changeable depths lurk sarcasm, wit, and a blinding intelligence. And there's an oddly high degree of humanity residing there, right next to something so incredibly alien to humanity.
After all these years of fighting, now fucking, the looks he's given me have always made something deep inside my body tremble. It's a connection. His eyes catch and hold mine, even for only an instant, and I feel him in my bones and blood. We are too alike.
I denied it for years. I'm sure he did, too. But, we're both hunters. We're both killers. I hate being called that, because I know it's the truth. My killing is tempered by my soul, and his is exacerbated by his demon. And somewhere in the middle we come together and clash.
There's nothing loving or gentle about our being together. It's not nice at all. It's like...drowning. The lust is so pure, the need so painful. All rational thought flies from my mind, and we mate like wild things.
Which, I guess, is what we are. Wild, animalistic, night creatures.
At first, it bothered me. After the first time, as I crept away from his crypt at the first stirring of dawn, I felt such horror and shame I wanted to scream. I successfully avoided him for nearly a week, but then...
I dreamed of him, of us, in his bed, our bodies moving together, mine golden, his nearly white, our legs entwined, our lips and hands feverishly exploring.
And I went back to him.
I try not to feel guilt or shame anymore. The horror's pretty much taken care of. Once you sleep with a demon, the second time around isn't really a big deal. My original horror had really been more of an attempt to deal with the fact that I'd slept with my one time mortal enemy, current annoying nemesis.
And that I'd betrayed my boyfriend.
I try not to think of Riley much during these nights of white hot need and cold pleasure. Instead, I drown in eyes every color of blue.
They're light blue now, as he gazes at me with a hint of an emotion he tries desperately to hide. I recognize it for what it is, but I refuse to analyze it or even think about it.
There's just sex between us, great sex, but nothing more. It's better that way. It has to *be* that way.
I'm feeling that trembling again, in the pit of my stomach, in the blood flowing languidly through my veins, in my tingling nerves, and the very marrow of my bones. That connection between us is never dormant anymore.
It's like we're two sides of the same coin, but sliding to the edges. Light and dark merging into grey. Good and evil mingling to make...What?
The soft look in his eyes is fading, being replaced by a stormy look of growing desire, and I know he wants me again long before he reaches for me and pulls me beneath him. I feel his desire hard against me, and liquid heat flows through me as my body readies itself.
He glides into me effortlessly. Braced above me, touching me only where our bodies are joined, he locks his eyes on mine.
The first hard thrust forces the air from my lungs in a harsh gasp, but I never break his gaze, watching as ever so slowly his eyes begin to darken. My legs creep up around his hips, my hands grip his forearms. As my lips draw back in a snarl of need, and my head arches against the pillow, I meet his next thrust and his next, my hips churning against his.
We never talk during sex. Actually, we rarely talk at all. The only sounds that fill the cold crypt are inarticulate groans and moans, and flesh slapping against flesh.
And, it's hard and it's fast, the pace increasing which each drive of our bodies together. Any normal girl would be black and blue from the pounding, but my body can take it. It was built to take it, to take him.
I don't know if, after being turned, he ever had sex with a human girl. If he held back and loved them tenderly. But, it's not necessary with me. He can be what he truly is.
And, so can I.
I grip him with heels and hands and vaginal muscles, squeezing and punishing in my own way. All it does is make him move faster and harder, driving us both towards an elusive climax.
But, I have faith that I will find release in his arms. He has never denied me that, always given me as much pleasure as he seems to take from me. More often than not my orgasm triggers his own.
I can feel it building deep inside me, the painful pleasure that clenches my guts and makes me moan and arch nearly off the bed. He shifts onto his knees, changing the angle of penetration, and lowering his head so that our eyes are only inches apart. He doesn't kiss me. At this stage, he never does. He always watches me come, his eyes narrow and full of need.
The orgasm hits suddenly, taking my breath away as I strain against him, then explode. As I shudder around him, I watch his eyes reach that nearly black stage. And as I cry out and begin to come down from the intensity of orgasm, I drown in those indigo depths, as he climaxes violently inside me.
And, I wonder, what does he see in my eyes?
The End