Bloodlust

He slid onto the bar stool beside her and flashed his most engaging grin, knowing the effect it had on women. Dazzling white teeth coupled with a tanned, handsome—but not too handsome—face, tall, muscular-but-lean body clothed in a perfectly-fitting Armani suit as black as sin. He was every woman’s dream.

She said, “Don’t get too close.”

He said, “Why…you don’t bite, do you?”

She sipped the drink he’d bought her. “I might.” Her cool, gray eyes met his over the rim of the glass, laughter dancing inside storm clouds. She licked salt from her full, red lips.

“And I just might like it.” He bent his head, and moved in close, letting her catch a hint of his expensive, musky aftershave.

She leaned away and their eyes made contact again. Swirls of darkness ebbed and flowed inside the gray. He’d never seen eyes like hers; they excited him even though no blood smeared her body.

She said, “There’s no might about it.”

Her lips parted in a smile that left him breathless. And he wanted her. Badly. He wanted to tangle his fingers in the mass of curly, blonde hair that fell almost to her waist. Wanted to bury his face in the cleavage of her tight, scarlet dress and breathe in her scent. Wanted to run his hands up her shapely thighs and rip off her panties. He wanted to do everything imaginable to her—but kill her. Not yet.

She said, “Thank you for the drink.” Her pupils were huge pools of moonless midnight.

He said, “Come to my place. You can thank me properly there.”

She said, “Sounds like fun.”

He paid for their half-finished drinks, and holding hands, they exited the bar into the balmy, New York night. He flagged down a cab and gave the driver his address—his real address.

He couldn’t keep his hands off her, and hers feverishly roamed over him. He caressed her softness. She stroked his hardness. He was so excited he almost took her in the back seat of the smelly cab. But he contained himself. She deserved the clean, silk sheets of his bed.

She said, “Nice building,” as they stepped into the elevator.

He said, “It’s home.”

He backed her into a corner and claimed her puffy, lipstick-smeared mouth in a kiss that went on and on as the elevator climbed the floors all the way to the top where they whooshed open, revealing an opulent living room done in varying shades of cream and white. The only color other than that of purity filtered in through the floor to ceiling wall of windows that looked out upon the thousands of lights dotting the New York skyline.

He swooped her up in his arms, and like a groom with his new bride, carried her over the threshold.

She said, “Beautiful….” her eyes on the twinkling glass as he strode through the living room.

He said, “Not as beautiful as you.” He passed through the bedroom door and kicked it shut behind them.

Another wall of windows let in a smattering of light from the city stars so he could see his way to the bed. But he wanted to see more. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her lips, her eyes, her body. Her soul.

He flipped the light switch, bringing the room into bright, sharp focus. Whites and creams dominated here too. Her red dress stood out like fresh blood on a white towel.

She said, “Put me down.”

He said, “I don’t want to turn you lose.”

She said, “You won’t be.”

He reluctantly let her feet slide to the floor. She dropped her shoulder bag and tore at his suit-coat; he helped, letting go of her long enough to shrug it from his shoulders. Then as one they stumbled toward the pristine bed, fabric ripping, buttons popping, clothing and shoes marking the floor of their passing.

They made love like wild, starved animals that had not eaten in days. They consumed each other, marking their claim with scratches, bites, and bruises. Daylight was pinking the sky when at last, exhausted, they fell asleep face to face, arms and legs wrapped around each other.

***

He woke and she was gone.

He lurched from the bed, panic filling him. She couldn’t be gone; he wasn’t finished with her yet. And he didn’t even know her name, how to find her. Her blood, damn it! He hadn’t taken it, tasted it, hadn’t—

Then he heard it: the shower running.

His racing heart slowed. Calm filled his mind.

Whistling softly, he eased open the nightstand. Smiled. The shiny blade winked back at him. He curled his fingers around the bone handle, lifted the knife into the air, admiring the way the morning sun caressed the steel, sending out glints of lights along its six-inch length. Only the special ones had felt the pleasure of its razor kiss. And it was only the special ones he brought here—like the one in his bathroom.

He heard the water stop. She would be out soon

He padded silently on the plush, white carpet to the closed bathroom door, and his heart aflutter like a boy about to kiss his first love, he waited. For her. He’d push her back inside the bathroom and…

The doorknob turned. He raised the knife, anxious to see the terror in her eyes.

Then the door opened, and what he saw caused him to take a step back. Naked and wet and wielding a wicked-looking knife of her own, she came after him, her smile beautiful and brilliant and utterly insane.

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. He’d be damned. She had planned to kill him.
The crazy drained out of her eyes, and she glanced down, saw the evidence of his excitement.

She said, “Let’s do it again. Want to?”

He said, “Hell yes!”

He pitched his knife away. Hers followed suit. This time they didn’t even make it to the bed. She took him down and straddled him on the floor.

Later, they could sort out the details of who does what to whom. And when.

Photo from Pixabay

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