Though Larisa was a cold, spiteful creature, whose glare could freeze flames and extract the bitterness from wine, and whose scowl was reserved distinctly for Davey, and though she flaunted the impression that the only thing worse than being near him was being with him, she was also exquisite.
He’d known it from the day they first met, and because they would live an eternity together, regardless if it was in their best interest or not, he’d allowed himself to be amazed by her. Humans bored, and other vampires could be hilariously pompous, but Larisa never failed to amaze. She never failed to delightfully surprise. She never failed to approach Davey with her steely eyes and tight lips. As she buttoned her blouse, he chuckled and looked away.
"I don’t know how you do it," and he cocked his head, "but when I make love I like to give my partner my undivided attention. I didn’t take you one for thoughtless sex. My mistake."
Davey turned to the poor excuse for a vampire to further accentuate his point, and watched the insult to his species clumsily attempt to leave the cramped room through a series of theatrical gestures. He seemed rather like a trapped fly bumping against glass as a means of escape. He seemed rather lost, and Davey was tempted to point out the door from where he’d just arrived. At the same time, he was also curious to see just how long it would take him to figure it out on his own. He wondered if he was capable of such a remarkably taxing achievement. Lallie swore, and Davey feigned surprise. “Language,” he teased. The fly buzzed away, and they were alone.
"None whatsoever, why do you ask?’"
"When you what?" It was practically impossible not to laugh at that. Even as a married woman, Larisa couldn't remember a single day when she'd made love. It was an insane thought; the idea, on her, sat awkwardly. And, despite her general dismissal of Davey, she didn't particularly peg him for an individual that sought out romance; he practically reeked predator. And predators rarely ever did. And that, well, that was the only thing that made her not hate him as much. Tall, dark, and scary, Adam had said it was her type. Asshole. To Hell, him and his stupid mind reading tricks. "Well, then that's the difference. I don't fucking make love. And, cut the shit. I don't want to hear all about how you butter them up real nice, go down on them for hours and whisper poems as you slowly pleasure your ladies. Breakfast in bed the next morning, too? How sweet."
"Fuck you, Davey," she shot back; although, not as annoyed as you'd expect to go with such words. It was almost casual. "How's this for language?"
"Because you seem to think it is."
