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never tire

by shade
Rated PG-13

Never Tire by Shadow of the Stain 

for my beloved BeElleGee, who conned me in to writing Anita Blake fanfiction in the first place, who inspired Lessons and without whom I would never have dared to try

Never Tire
. . . still new

The moonlight is silver pale against the burnished ivory that is Jean-Claude’s skin. I have seen him like this, bared from the waist up, feeding off a barely clothed girl in a shimmer of moon light time and time again, but I know it will never loose its appeal. He will never become plain, never become ordinary. That is something that simply cannot come to pass.

He pulls away from the girl, his bloodlust is satiated for the time being. The girl is half delirious with sensation of it all as she slinks away, back into the pain part of the building, sprawling behind us like a slumbering cat. I do not think - no, I know - I will never tire of the smooth line of his spine. I kneel silently to stroke my tongue over the beginning of that gentle sweep ever so softly.

Things are still new. We’ve lain together but a handful of times and it is still a pleasurable world of discovery. Our first exploration of each other’s body was short and rough and impassioned but left us dearly wanting to know more of the other’s soft flesh. After that we had long tender moments of discovery but it seems to me that there will never be time enough to find all there is to learn about my newest lover.

The shiver that runs through him is worth the stars in the sky. He turns to me slowly, those lush dark curls falling around his shoulders and his blue eyes gleaming like a child on Christmas. This is one present he can most assuredly unwrap. Ever so softly, gently he pulls me to my feet, pressing his blood sweet lips to mine in the most sinfully gentle of kisses. I could lose myself to this kiss and never once regret it.

Our bodies are a perfect fit, his fitting neatly against me as I press his back to the wall, our position imitating the one I found him in. His hands are warm and smooth as he tears eagerly at my shirt, trying to push it off my body. I almost hate to still that frantic movement. Almost. We can prolong our encounter if only we adjourn to my chambers. After all, a bed is a much better backing than dirt. Though dirt and stone has its time and place.

He lets me lead him down through stone hallways that neither of us pay attention to, our lips tearing at each others every few steps, a soft keen echoing from his so beautiful mouth.

this is where the junkies go,
where time is fast but everything else is slow

questions?  comments?  email me paranoir2@yahoo.com