Everyone is gone. My purple dress can barely hide how my breath catches just from looking at him, my friend. Lucius looks gorgeous—like the dream of a stoic, indifferent man who, despite himself, realizes he can't live without the love of the humble gardener who once walked into his mansion.
We both step into his apartment. As we pass through the door, I deliberately brush my hand against his, again and again, signaling my desire, letting him know I'm his whenever he wants me. And I'm not lying. He takes a wine glass from his cellar and offers it to me. I can see the conflict on his face—the struggle between the passion he feels for me and his self-imposed duty not to hurt me, to keep me safe from a world where, by his own standards, I wouldn't survive.
He's wrong. He fell into my trap during dinner, and I drew him in. We're here because of my strategy. I wasn't going to resign myself to losing him to that meaningless tangle of romantic ambition. I'm the one rescuing him, the one protecting him—not the other way around.
He speaks:
"Monaco has something special, and it's not the luxury. I was happy here once. Look—do you see it? Over there, the biggest one. That yacht belongs to the Longfield family. I hate it, but when I was a kid, I had a small one called 'Casio,' and I was free to go wherever I wanted with it. Do you know what happened?"
The new Carmilla isn't interested in listening to his "poor little rich boy" story. The old one would have stared in awe, but not now. Not anymore. If I wanted to know about that little boat, I could focus and touch his hand—I'm sure the images would come to me. What I want is what already feels inevitable: for him to take me and make me his in a way no one else can.
So, discreetly, trying not to seem rude, I spill a little wine down the neckline of my dress and blame myself for being so clumsy. In a second, he offers me a handkerchief to dry off, as if that gentlemanly reaction were built into his genes. I tilt my chin up so he can wipe me. I know he's a hunter, so he can't realize that he's the one being hunted. Holding the glass with one hand and lifting my hair with the other, I keep repeating, "I'm so clumsy, and I love this dress," while opening my neckline as if I truly cared about the size of the stain. I know he can see my nipples from where he stands. I stay like that for a few seconds, complaining and pretending not to notice his arm extended near me, offering the handkerchief, while the drops slide down my chest.
Then he brings it closer and finally wipes where the wine trickles down my torso. I take his hand, guiding it, saying, "There… a little lower." He sees how my body reacts when our skin touches. His voice shifts, turning dominant as he says:
"What are you doing, girl? I know what you're doing. Stop it—I'm warning you."
This is the crucial moment. If I pretend to be innocent too obviously, it won't attract him. He needs to take control, and he can't realize that I'm pulling the strings. So I choose not to answer and keep opening my neckline, complaining about my own clumsiness. When our eyes finally meet, I let go of the dress, pretending I've only just realized he's looking at my breasts.
I have him. He orders me:
"Take it off. I know what you're doing."
I respond with the precision of a surgeon:
"You're right. I'll go put it in the laundry room, in water, or it'll be ruined forever. Give me a few minutes and I'll be back."
I pretend to walk toward the bedroom, but I feel his powerful arm wrap around me from behind, his firm, hard body pressing against me. Goodbye, strategy—my breathing betrays that my mind is about to abandon me completely.
"I'm not going to say it again. Take it off for me."
He has me now, and I don't want to resist. I hold back just enough, as if I didn't know my defiance only makes him more dangerous. But the pressure of his grip on my waist and his mint-scented breath—mixed with his cologne and the oaky notes of the wine—force me to give him what he wants. He lets go so he can watch from a distance as I, flushed, remove my dress and undress for him.
His strong fingers press into my waist, lifting my hips. He makes me bend over, placing my hands on a small table in the living room, where a few books that were never read serve as decoration. He strikes me with an open hand, right at the center of my pleasure, making everything else disappear as his dominance merges with my instinct into a single force. Then another, and another, as he says:
"I know you've been bad. Did you think I didn't notice? Lift your hips a little higher."
I do, raising them so high for him that I feel more beautiful than ever. Irresistible. He moves to my side; now the blows are softer but faster, again and again over my wet core, overflowing with desire. I look into his eyes, silently begging him to take me at last. But he squeezes and pulls at my breasts with his other hand, and I don't yield—I don't move with him, so he'll want to push harder.
He stands behind me, and I hear him take off his belt and shoes. His clothes land on a couch. He grabs my waist with both hands. He doesn't move, and neither do I. It will happen when he decides. I could stay like this for a thousand years, ready for him. I realize I could even reach climax now—my breathing can no longer hide the soft moans slipping from my lips with every slight movement of his hands, the kind that make me think, It's coming.
But no. The seconds pass, heightening my desire until my submission is complete.
He orders in a rough voice:
"On your knees. Hands on the rug. Now."
I obey, and he moves beside me, running his hands over my entire body, biting my back and breathing in every inch of my skin. When he bites my lips and my ears, I see his neck tense with muscle and pulsing veins, and it makes me moan like never before. We've become something more primitive than a man and a woman—that's the only way I can explain it. My body urges me to breed with him, to make sure he finishes inside me. I can't think of anything but his scent, which seems to say, he is the strongest, and it hardens my breasts until they ache with every brush of contact… he loses himself behind me.
I pant for Lucius, for the beast that holds me like a female in heat. I pant because I need him. He begins to enter me and doesn't stop—slowly, but going deeper and deeper. I can't breathe. He fills me completely, yet keeps going, until I have to lower myself further to show him I can't take more. He pauses, pulling back to thrust again, and out of instinct I grab his leg, telling him I want his release deep inside me, no matter what. But he pulls back and thrusts with such force that my eyes close and open, making the lights around me blur as if the air itself depended on his movement.
I start to tremble—the orgasm is inevitable. He doesn't stop, going harder, faster, deeper. He understands perfectly when my neck arches, begging him to stay deep inside me, and he does, so I can overflow knowing he's exactly where my body demands. And just as I cry out, he pushes even deeper, pressing his chest against my back as he releases, and I feel it as something necessary, something vital, matching him with my own pleasure until we dissolve into a single cry, remaining there, joined. Him over me, and me… over the universe.
I don't return to being human right away. This time is different. I whisper:
"Stay on top of me a little longer. I feel beautiful and safe like this."
He wraps his arms around me, playing his role as a leader. When he lets me go, I turn and fall onto my back on the rug. He runs his hand over my face, and I bite it. He brings his mouth closer, and I need to bite, bite, bite. I'm not fully back yet—I'm still something more than Carmilla. Our breathing slows, and his eyes are a deep blue, reflecting mine. His perfect nose touches mine. Thoughts return to my mind like an unstoppable wave; I shut them off as if flipping a switch. Nothing will stop the new Carmilla from enjoying her hunt. Lucius is beautiful, and sex has his face.