Poison Fruit

Seriously, I have no idea what I said.

And yet I was conscious all the while of that connection between us, drawn dangerously taut.

I was aware that there was an edge beyond which he would be sent ravening. And I became aware, too, that I had to maintain some measure of control, however faint and incoherent. Lust was one of the Seven Deadlies, and apparently the well of my desire was bottomless. I couldn’t afford to lose myself entirely. I never raised a shield against Stefan, but there were times when I had the presence of mind to hold back, allowing my aura to diffuse and dissipate while I caught my breath.

As I said, it was like walking a tightrope. A sexy, sexy tightrope. Also, it was probably a good thing that we hadn’t gone to bed before I’d gotten skilled at manipulating my aura.

Everything slowed and intensified when Stefan finally shed the last of his clothes, settled between my thighs, and entered me, inch by deliberate inch. He braced himself above me on strong arms, his broad chest hovering above mine as he rocked his hips, his long, firm cock plowing my depths with sure, steady strokes.

Who was it that said something about being careful about gazing into the abyss, and the abyss gazing back? Nietzsche, I think. I don’t know; I’m pretty sure I heard it in a Lifetime movie.

Well, with Stefan inside me and the connection between us open, I gazed into his abyss. I saw the centuries’ worth of pride and anger and loss, half a millennium and more of hurt and loneliness, of endless hunger and abiding patience, and what it meant to be Outcast.

And I wrapped my arms and legs around him, embracing it all. Oh, and I came again, too. There’s a lot to be said for the rhythm and timing of a partner who can sense exactly what you’re feeling and when you’re on the verge.

With a shudder, Stefan let himself find his own release. Breaking the connection between us, at least on my end, he collapsed against me, his body heavy atop mine.

“Well, that was intense,” I murmured.

After a pause, he laughed deep in his chest and rolled off me. “Yes.”

Propping myself on one elbow, I gazed at Stefan. His eyes were closed, giving me no clue regarding the current extent of his inner turmoil. His unnaturally pale skin was faintly luminous in the glow of the white Christmas lights, in stark contrast to his slightly-too-long black hair fanned across the pillow. He had a lean, muscular warrior’s body, trained for battle rather than sport in an era long before gym memberships or CrossFit workouts. I flattened one hand on his chest, feeling the living warmth of his skin and the steady throb of his heartbeat.

I remembered watching him impale himself on his sword, the blade piercing his chest and emerging from his back. There was no scar, not from that injury. Stefan had died and come back in the flicker of an eye. But there were other scars that his mortal body had sustained before his first death.

I traced one, a lumpy ridge that slanted from his left clavicle across his pectoral muscle. “Are these battle scars?”

“Yes,” Stefan said without opening his eyes. “But most of them were old before I was made Outcast and no longer pain me.”

“What about this one?” I circled an angry pink pucker of scar tissue on his side a few inches above his right hipbone.

He exhaled softly. “That was more recent. I caught an arrow in ambush. I was fortunate that nothing vital was pierced.”

“It looks like it still hurts,” I said.

Stefan opened his eyes to reveal still-enormous pupils, irises like frosty rims around them. The hunger in them made my heart skip a beat. “Sometimes, yes.” He caught my hand, drawing it to his lips to kiss my fingertips one by one. “Daisy, I would like to ask you to stay the night with me, to drift gently into sleep as I tell you the story of each and every scar, if that is what you wish. But I fear that making love to you has taxed my control to a greater degree than I anticipated, and I am finding it difficult to retreat from the precipice.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“Forgive me.” He gave me a rueful smile at odds with that avid black gaze. “But it is best if I leave.”

“Leave?” I felt slow-witted. “But this is your place.”

“I cannot be so ungentlemanly as to turn you out of my bed and send you out into the cold, Daisy,” Stefan said. “I’m sorry. This is not the way I would have wished our first night together to end.”

I laid my hand against his cheek. I didn’t want Stefan to leave. I wanted him to stay. I wanted both of us to stay. I wanted him to hold me and tell me again that I was beautiful. I wanted to fall asleep with him holding me, feeling safe and protected. But that wasn’t going to happen, at least not right now. Maybe never. “I know,” I said. “It’s all right. I’ll go. I’d rather.”

He searched my face. “Are you certain?”

Leaning over, I brushed his lips with a kiss. “Yes.”

So instead of lying in Stefan’s embrace and reveling in the languorous aftermath, I climbed out of bed and put on my clothes.

Downstairs, clad in trousers and an unbuttoned dress shirt, Stefan found my discarded coat and helped me into it. “Good night, Daisy,” he murmured in the foyer as he reached for the doorknob. His black hair swung forward to touch the collar of his white shirt and his dilated pupils gleamed in the darkness. “I hope I have given you no cause for regret.”

I thought about it and shook my head. “You know what? All things considered, I think this went well.”

It was a hell of a way to start the New Year, at any rate.