You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion…
Or, the pale visitor offers to keep anyone from invading your property in exchange for a taste of your blood.
ao3 link
“Suppose I made you an offer,” the pale visitor says in a voice like autumn leaves skittering across pavement, whispery and dry despite the wicked dripping tongue you’ve spied, a sludge of tar coated in a thick layer of saliva.
“What kind of offer?” You ask warily, keeping a tight hold of your grandfather’s Mosin–Nagant rifle as you wait for a reply from the other side of the door. You’ve been locked in a kind of stalemate for several weeks now, unable to venture from your home, unwilling to allow the tall figure inside. He never seems upset by your continued refusal, his voice always calm, his demeanor more polite than most of his human counterparts.
“What if I kept the others away? No visitors. No soldiers. No guests begging for entry. Just you, alone. Undisturbed. At peace. Perfect solitude. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dear hermit?”
You would indeed, and the lure of his words makes you curious. “How would you do that?”
The tall figure beams, the wicked points of his teeth glinting in the porch light. Perhaps when he’d still been human the smile had been ingratiating, charming, alluring. Now it simply seems ravenous. You can feel his hunger wafting right through the door, ready to devour not just your body, but your spirit, feasting on your discomfort and fear, the perfect garnish for his grisly meal. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself about those kind of details,” he purrs dismissively, making your gut twist even more.
“You mean murder.”
The rictus grin because flatter, the muscles in the shallow curve of the visitor’s jaw tensing. A faint break in composure, hairline really, and yet you tremble at the knowledge of that fractured boundary. “I think you are missing the point, my dear.”
“You still haven’t told me what you’re getting out of this.” The visitor hardly needs your permission to eliminate any who wander onto your property; he’s already dealt with several trespassers, even going so far as to display his handiwork, propping up severed heads and arranging corpses in various poses within sight of the farmhouse windows.
The grin becomes a smirk, lopsided and smarmy. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’ll require payment.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. Of all the things you might have imagined the creature to seek to barter for, this was perhaps at the bottom of the list. “You want money?” You ask incredulously.
The intruder laughs, and this, remarkably, is a pleasant sound. It is deep, the kind that resonates not from the chest but from the belly, a rumbling that has to shake itself free, working its way to the surface in gradual increments. “No, no, of course not. I have no use for such a thing.” His head tilts to one side, the sweep of dark hair falling over his chalky brow shifting with the movement, a shadow creeping over the moon. “I desire the only currency that matters—your blood.” He cannot quite tame that wicked tongue inside his mouth, the black tendril poking from behind his perfect white teeth, curling over them to touch his lips in anticipation, prematurely savoring this prospect.
You immediately take a step back. “You want to drink my blood?” You inquire, aghast.
“Just a small amount, really little more than an appetizer for myself. I assure you you’re getting the better end of the deal. I’ve always been generous to a fault.”
You shuffle closer again, peering once more at the shirtless figure through the peephole set into the door. His hands are still folded in front of him in a false display of patience, but there’s a faint line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth punctuating his mention of feasting on your blood.
“It will only take a moment of your time. Once a week should be sufficient.”
“How will you…?”
“Oh, you really are a treasure. How do you think? With a bite, of course. I promise not to make a mess; the punctures will be quite tidy. Minimal scarring, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh, a bitter sound without mirth. “You think I’m worried about my appearance? That’s the least of my concerns.”
The visitor scowls, his relaxed composure slipping a bit further. “What’s the issue, then?”
“You want to bite my neck like some kind of vampire—”
“—It doesn’t have to be your neck. There are plenty of other sites I can feed from,” he interrupts smoothly.
“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’re not going to rip my throat open and kill me instead?”
He looks genuinely offended, the neatly steepled fingers collapsing and parting, his long arms now dangling at his emaciated sides. “This is a contract. A solemn vow entered by both parties. I give you my word.”
You hesitate, and the hesitation surprises you. Why are you even considering this? You might as well just fling open the door and invite him inside.
“Why do you even want it? You can drink your fill from any of your other victims.”
“Do I inquire why you prefer isolation?” He sniffs, one bare heel scuffing against the porch’s flooring as he deliberates whether or not to answer you. “There is a difference between what is taken involuntarily and what is willingly offered. It is like comparing a newer vintage of wine and a well aged one; there is a marked variation not so much in composition as in flavor.”
“If my blood is really as appealing as you seem to think it is, then I ask again what’s to stop you from overdoing it?”
“Are you implying that I have no self control?” His voice is low. Dangerous.
You shift your grip on the gun. Your fingers are beginning to cramp from how tightly you’re clutching it. “No, I’m not. But I have another question.”
He sighs loudly, clearly growing impatient. “Ask.”
“What happens if you sample my blood and you decide it’s not to your taste after all?”
“An event that will never occur. I have every confidence in your stock, just as I’m certain you have faith that I’ll keep your home secure. Enough deliberation. You have the information you need. Make your decision.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then I can promise you will never know a moment’s peace again. I will summon every visitor to this location. It will be a siren song to every human, and the men from FEMA will harass you incessantly. If you think not being able to go out into the sunlight is a hardship, you will surely feel like you’re dwelling in Hell on Earth when you’re tormented by every living wretch for miles.”
“If I agree to your terms under duress, wouldn’t that spoil that precious vintage you’re so eager to taste?”
The visitor’s palm slaps against the door and you jump, startled as the wooden structure rattles in its frame. When he speaks again, the words are pushed out through gritted teeth. “I grow tired of this banter. Do you accept my terms, yes or no?”
“A…Alright.”
His head lifts sharply. “Is that a yes? You agree to the terms?”
“Yes.” You can scarcely believe the word leaves your lips so readily.
The furrowed lines on the pale visitor’s features smooth out, the tension in the muscles between neck and shoulder visibly easing. He smiles. “Excellent decision. I’ll do my part, and return next week so you can hold up your end of the bargain.”
You nod, and then realizing he can’t see you, you manage another agreeable sound.
He departs as silently as he came, leaving you alone once more. It takes you a long time to fall asleep that evening, your mind swirling with thoughts of what might happen when he returns to collect his due.
~~~
That week nothing happens.
Not a single knock at the door. No horrors on display in the yard. No bone chilling cries or menacing shouts. You enjoy the peace and quiet, until you remember what the cost of that luxury will be.
The pale visitor returns exactly seven nights later. He knocks politely on the door. You know it’s him before you even look through the peephole; before his knuckles even rap against the wood. There’s a distinct presence about him, an aura that spreads like an oil slick announcing his arrival, making the hairs on your arms stand on end.
“Good evening,” he greets. “How was the week? Did you enjoy your solitude?”
“Yes.” The sound of the word is a faint croak. “Were there a lot of people you had to…had to…”
“…Dispatch?” He supplies. “A fair few. But you needn’t linger about those unpleasant details. Let’s move on to other topics. Namely, your payment.”
You inhale and exhale deeply. “I think my wrist would be best.” You’ve been giving this some thought, and you feel like this is the least intimate place he might bite.
“As you wish.” Nothing in his tone suggests he’s pleased or displeased with your choice.
“I’m not letting you in. I’m just going to stick my arm outside the door.”
A brief flicker of annoyance creases the corners of his dark eyes, the thin lips spreading to an even narrower line, but he nods his acceptance.
You unlock the door, cautiously easing your left arm through the sliver of a gap you’ve allowed, your heart pounding like mad.
The visitor’s touch is cool and surprisingly gentle. You allow him to bend your elbow, lifting your wrist higher.
“Hold still.”
You close your eyes, struggling to obey. His breath ghosts across the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, warm and humid, the only warning you’re given before his teeth pierce your flesh. You stifle a cry, biting your bottom lip. The sensation is akin to stabbing yourself with a sewing needle, unexpected and sharp, and just as brief. Now suction is applied, lips latching over the marks to form a boundary, the coaxing pressure of his tongue drawing your life essence inside his mouth. You begin to feel drowsy. The feeling becomes increasingly pleasant, almost like slipping into warm bath water.
“Enough.” Your wrist is released and all of that lax warmth fades, the evening air suddenly cool against your damp skin, whatever spell had been cast broken as you become alert once more.
You swiftly withdraw your arm and shut the door, quickly assessing the damage. You’d been expecting to see blood still dripping from the wounds he’d just inflicted, but the twin holes are surprisingly small and there is very little blood staining your skin. A neat job of it, as he’d promised.
“So, homeowner, what do you think? My terms are agreeable, yes? Both parties satisfied with very little exertion or discomfort required.” His skin seems a little less pale, a bit of color highlighting his gaunt cheeks.
“It didn’t hurt too badly,” you grudgingly admit, rubbing your arm more in disbelief at how normal it felt than any attempt to soothe it. “Did you…did you…”
“Did I what?” The wide grin splitting his lips apart informs you that he knows exactly what you’re attempting to ask.
“Did you enjoy the taste? Was it what you imagined it would be?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I certainly did.” You watch his tongue run over his teeth, as if hoping to catch any stray remnants of your blood tucked between them, and you shudder. “Well, I believe that concludes our business for this evening, so I’ll bid you farewell for now. I’ll return in one week.”
The visitor departs and you seek the comfort of a hot shower. You scrub at your injured arm, at the marks left there, and your fingers stutter over your lathered skin as you recall the feel of his mouth pressed there. It is a memory that resurfaces after you’ve slipped into pajamas and returned to your bedroom, nagging and gnawing, making you toss and turn, driving that same arm beneath your pillow in search of cool relief, a distraction from the heated awareness that you’d actually liked the feel of his mouth dragging your lifeforce from your body.
Another week passes. No one comes to your door until the seventh evening.
The pale visitor has returned.
“Good evening. How was the week?”
“Quiet,” you reply.
“And your arm?”
“Healing well.” It’s true; the tiny scabs that had dotted your inner wrist have already fallen away, leaving faint pink dots in their wake.
“Good.” He rocks forward slightly on his feet and the porch floorboards creak.
“I’m going to open the door.” You make good on your claim, a wedge of moonlight spilling through the gap. You hesitate, then widen it, deciding at the last moment to let it swing open completely.
The visitor makes no move to push his way forward, and you’re not certain if you’re relieved or disappointed.
You keep your eyes open when he bites you this time, the same wrist offered up once again. You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion. Solemn. A touch when he is finished that might be a kiss, lips pressing without need, not to sup but to offer a goodbye. He does not speak when your arm retreats back to your side, the movement slow this time, careful. He looks at you a moment longer and then he turns away, descending the stairs and disappearing into the fields.
~~~
“Where do you go?” You ask quietly during another visit. The weeks have spread to months. He has not bitten you yet this evening. The door is wide open. You’re wearing a dress tonight, the buttons lining the front of the material the same shade of onyx as the visitor’s hair.
“What do you mean?”
“When you leave here, where do you go? When the sun comes up…”
“Wherever I can find shelter. A vacant home. A barn. A cellar. Any place that suits my needs.”
“Do you miss having a place to call home?”
A flicker of something in his eyes. Dark eyes to match his hair, your dress, the sky above. “I have no need of such a place anymore.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping up and down your form. “Your attire.”
“Yes? What about it?”
“It’s different from what you usually wear.”
“Do you like it?”
“It doesn’t matter what you clad yourself in,” he claims, but his eyes say something different. “Let us complete the contract.”
“Here,” you say, tapping against the side of your neck.
If he is surprised by your request, he is careful not to reveal it. One hand settles on your waist, the other threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head as his lips find your throat. Bone cleaves skin and vessel and his grip tightens, tugging you against him. You have never been this close. You had imagined he might smell like decay, like the vile things he consumes. Instead you detect pleasant notes of rich earth, fresh cut grass and the smoke of perfumed incense. You reach past the rows of ribs straining his chest and clutch the wing of one shoulder blade.
He stops feeding, releasing you and stepping back. You almost invite him inside. Almost.
He is gone.
~~~
“Good evening.” This time you are the one to issue the greeting. “How was your week?”
“Fine.” He looms at the threshold. His shadow has already crossed it, teasing the feeling of being indoors.
“Come inside,” you invite, before you lose your nerve.
His breath hitches. The night takes on a new kind of quiet, as if holding its breath.
When he enters, he has to duck his head. Your feet are bare like his. They tuck neatly between them when he presses you against the wall. The picture frame set on the nearby table falls. The slips of yellow paper tacked above the cordless telephone rain down like leaves. Your hands cage his slender waist and he shakes. Your lips brush his collarbone and he nuzzles your hair. For every question one body asks, a ready answer is given by the other.
These are the first terms of the new covenant, pressed against flesh, exhaled through breath and what comes behind it, sharp teeth and soft lips and searching tongue.
New hire, young, fresh out of college. Energetic. Enthusiastic. A breathless sort of rambling when you talk for long periods of time that he finds charming. Pretty. He’s not blind.
He can’t imagine you’d be interested. Too many decades between you.
You can’t know the wanting that overwhelms him some nights.
You barely touch the gas pedal, your car crawling behind Dave’s sedan. It would have been easier just to ride in his car, but you know you can’t leave yours in the diner parking lot. So here you are, with the windshield wipers thumping loudly and the window defrosters cranked on high, saying a silent prayer to any listening entity that you reach your destination safely.
You do.
You park in the shelter of a public garage, its use mandated by the city during storms like this, the customary on-street parking prohibited. Dave watches you emerge from your car, one eyebrow quirking at your apparent lack of preparation for an overnight stay when you exit empty handed.
“Didn’t bring anything with you? No change of clothes, something to sleep in?”
“I didn’t know I was going to be staying,” you remind him.
“You should keep supplies in the car just in case anyway, especially at this time of year.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that. We don’t get this much snow where I’m from.” You tug up the zipper of your jacket and shove your hands in your pockets. “So, how far away is this place of yours?”
“Right over there.” He points and your eyes follow that direction to find a tall brick building a short distance away. “Cold?”
“A little.”
“Come here.” He weaves a hand through your arm and pulls your hand gently out of your pocket, squeezing it with his gloved one. “Silly girl,” he chides softly. “So ill prepared.”
“I have mittens, I just don’t like wearing them to drive. I feel like I don’t have a good grip on the steering wheel when I do.”
Dave hums but doesn’t reply, instead tugging you gently forward towards the stairwell. The sudden absence of his hand as he releases yours before descending the stairs makes your own descent hurried, eager to be in physical contact with the older man again.
A slushy mess greets you when you both emerge on the ground floor, your hand secured once more. The plows haven’t yet cleared the streets, apparently in no rush since it’s a Friday evening. There aren’t a lot of tire tracks to step into at this time of night, forcing you to slog through the snow in boots that, although tall, are more for fashion than practicality unlike Dave’s Timbalands, the chill and wet already seeping inside to soak your nylon clad feet. The flakes are wet, heavy, sinking rapidly into your hair and clothing. It should be utter misery, trudging through this messy winter storm, and yet...it’s not. Instead you find yourself grinning, allowing the older man to guide you through the rapidly piling snow. You can’t quite match his long legged strides, especially in these conditions, forcing you more often than not to be pulled forward, colliding into your guide, who takes the opportunity to steal a kiss each time. Finally you finish the trek past a pair of buildings to reach the one he resides in.
“We can use this entrance.” He gestures to a glass front door and you duck inside the entryway, waiting for him to unlock the door. You now find yourself facing a carpeted set of stairs leading upward.
“Alright then?” Dave stamps his feet and you mirror his movements, dislodging bits of ice and snow onto the floor mat.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Your eyes lift to find him studying your features. “How about you, Dave?”
“Fairly decent.”
“Fairly decent, huh?” You reach up to brush some of the wet droplets that cling to his cheeks and he captures your hand, pushing you back against the wall nearby.
“Can’t help yourself, can you?” He smirks, thumbing away some of your own remnants from the winter weather. “Can’t even wait to get upstairs to touch me.”
“Pot, kettle, black,” you retort, your fingers curling around the lapel of his wool coat.
Dave chuckles softly, then his features grow more solemn as he bends to kiss you. Not like the quick, stolen ones outside; this lingers, deepens, melts away that cold clinging to your frame.
You still don’t understand how this man makes every kiss feel like it’s the first you’ve shared, your stomach somersaulting when his tongue slips between your lips. A faint hint of lingering ketchup, maybe tucked into one corner of his mouth that’s gone unnoticed. A taste of sweetness from that milkshake. You mark each flavor, until there is only his.
You’re breathless, lightheaded when he finally gifts you a break, drawing back slightly, forehead pressed against yours. The hands you’ve tucked inside his jacket to rest against his chest begin reluctantly evacuating, pausing when you bump some hard object in the inner satin lined pocket.
“Whoa, what have you got in there?”
“That was supposed to be a surprise, but I suppose now is as good a time as ever. Go on, take it out.”
You look a question at him as his face lifts, your fingers fumbling and closing around a square box. White, tied with a red ribbon.
“Is this a Christmas present?” You whisper in disbelief.
The park ranger sighs. “It was intended to be. I should make you wait to open it. But I suppose I really can’t.”
You grin, starting to unite the ribbon, then pause, your smile fading. “I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t think you’d…”
“That’s not the point of giving a gift. Open it.”
“I would have, though.” The thought had actually crossed your mind more than once, but imagining Dave’s response had mainly seemed to feature him being puzzled or mockingly bemused, leaving you feeling embarassed and foolish.
Don’t mistake this for something it’s not.
This admonition echoes in your mind more often than you’d like, steering you away from those affectionate feelings you feel creeping in. He’d cautioned you against it more than once, clearly still traumatized by some past event in his own life.
But the older man’s words don’t always match his actions. Case in point, the gift box in your hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to wait until December 25th to open it. You resume untying the ribbon and lift the lid.
A silver bangle bracelet rests inside, the center adorned with a polished disc depicted an etching of several evergreen trees.
“So you don’t forget about the campground, when you’re off doing whatever profession it is you’re studying for.”
“Chemistry,” you supply, staring at the jewelry he’s gifted you.
“Chemistry,” he repeats. “Interesting. Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding? It’s so pretty. Thoughtful,” you add, lifting the bracelet while he holds the box so you can properly fit it onto your wrist, shoving back the sleeves of your jacket and sweater so you can view it properly. It’s warm from his body heat and catches the lights set into the stairwell. “You really think I’d forget about you?”
“Doesn’t hurt to be sure.” His lips curve in a half smile.
“You are so God damn charming when you want to be, you know that?” You seat your hand against the nape of his neck and pull him down for another kiss. It’s even spicier than its predecessor and you find that it’s much too warm to be dawdling here in the entryway. “You gonna show me your place now?”
“Follow me.”
You count the flights as you ascend the staircase, finally reaching the fifth, the topmost level. Dave unlocks the door and pushes it open, gesturing for you to enter first.
The entire space that greets you once he flips a nearby lightswitch is an open concept, with no walls to section off rooms, save for what must be a bathroom tucked against one corner. You spy a kitchen, a living room, and his bed, set against the natural brick wall that perhaps faces the street, a spread of windows with frosted panes interrupting the exposed masonry.
“The noise from the street doesn’t bother you?”
He shakes his head. “I can sleep through pretty much anything.” He watches as you wipe your feet on the mat and then begin to pace the wood floors of the loft living space. It still has the feel of something newly acquired, with little in the way of decor and minimal furnishings, but maybe that’s just how he likes it. You tilt your head back to study the wooden beams above featuring several drop wrought iron lighting fixtures, then regard your host.
“So what do you think?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three months.” He folds his arms across his chest, tapping an index finger against his lips.
You nod, completing your circuit of the sparsely furnished living quarters.
“You don’t like it.”
“I do!” You protest. “It just seems kind of empty.”
“Are you critiquing my abilities as a home decorator? It takes time to settle in.”
“I bet it’ll look the same three months from now.”
“Cynical.” He clucks his tongue, stepping closer to you. “What do you imagine for this space instead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some plants, to start with. Get a little color going.”
“I’m hopelessly inept at maintaining house plants, even if I had the time or inclination to acquire them.”
“That’s what a lot of people say, but you just need to find one that’s low maintenance.”
“I wasn’t aware you were so passionate about them. What else do you suggest?”
You glance behind you, humming thoughtfully. “I don’t know, the Feng Shui is off. Maybe try moving furniture around. You should pull the rug forward, so the couch is barely resting on it. That book shelf would be better over—”
You’re interrupted by Dave’s hands tucking up underneath your jacket and settling on your waist. “You expect me to rearrange everything to please you?”
“Not everything, but…You said you were open to suggestions.”
“You, who are only staying the weekend, then leaving to go back to your college to study your Chemistry,” he murmurs, looking sullen as he toys with the zipper of your parka.
“No, I like your place,” you hastily reassure him. “Honestly. It’s a cool layout. It suits you. It just needs a woman’s touch.” Your lips graze the side of his neck once you’ve nudged aside his coat collar.
“A woman’s touch is exactly what I need, you’re not wrong there.” He grabs one of your hands, dragging it to the front of his pants.
“Dave!” You protest, giggling, the sounds dissolving when his mouth finds yours again.
“You still haven’t seen the best part.” He nips at your earlobe.
“I beg to differ. I think I’ve seen the best part already. Multiple times.”
“Of the apartment,” he corrects slyly.
“Is it the bathroom? I know how fond you are of them.”
Dave snickers. “Amusing, but no. We have one more set of stairs to go up. Follow me.”
The last set of steps reached through a door you’d previously ignored proves to be a much shorter flight. The steel door it dead ends at opens onto the roof of the old mill building. Your head tips back to admire the violet shaded sky that continues to send more snow your way. You walk to the edge of the building, then peer down at the city street below. Still no sign of the plows or any pedestrians. Everyone appears to be huddled up indoors, waiting out the storm.
“Some view, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s a nice quiet little downtown.” Across the street you can make out what looks like a pharmacy, a luggage store, and a pizza place, all shuttered for the evening. “You come up here a lot?”
“Only a few times.” Dave moves to stand beside you, resting his forearms on the snow covered masonry wall. “The library is within walking distance. It’s right on the river, too. Makes for some nice reading nooks.”
You consider the space behind you. A lot of it is cluttered with ductwork and service cabinets and HVAC units, but there’s easily enough room for a pair of folding chairs. “I’d bring a six pack of beer up here in the summer at night.”
“We can do that.”
“Yeah?” You turn to face him. “You think you won’t be tired of me by then?”
“You’re right. I’m sure we’ll both have moved on by then.”
In the past you might have fallen for this deadpan declaration, but you know his sense of humor too well by now. You punch his arm playfully, then resume your gaze at the slumbering city.
“It looks different from up here, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“All of it. A different perspective can change everything.” He turns away from the wall, now resting his elbows against its lip.
“Another Dave life lesson, is it?”
“No. But this is.”
Suddenly he grabs a handful of the snow off the ledge and stuffs it down the neckline of your sweater. You shriek, grabbing your own handful to retaliate, deciding to work your way in the other direction, shoving underneath the hem of his shirt to stroke the cold substance across his abdomen. He yelps and lunges but you dart away, ducking behind one of the rooftop maintenance structures. Your opponent hides behind another and you trade a few more snowballs back and forth. The score is not in your favor thus far. His aim is near perfect.
“Alright, I surrender.” You emerge, holding your hands up briefly. As you draw closer to him you make a final dip to collect snow for one last sneak assault but Dave catches your jacket sleeve easily, halting your progress. There’s a brief struggle before you finally collapse, pleading mercy and he follows, landing beside you. You watch the snow sink into his hair and dot his lashes. His breath exhales in a cloud of triumph, victorious beside you. You laugh and stroke his cheek.
The smile on his lips fades, his features growing more solemn. There is a quiet beauty in this moment between you. A palpable shift from playful and joyous to serene and deep. You feel the change echo over your own face, resetting the portrait. You want him, and it is a different kind of want from earlier. Not hasty. Not solely lust driven. You want him to sink inside, slow and steady. Meld. Merge. You want to know him, the real him, the other him, but you never know when the right time to ask is.
“I can practically hear the gears turning,” he murmurs. The snow laden roof is cold under your buttocks, but his lips cover your face in warm air.
“No, I just…” You hesitate, not wanting to ruin the moment. “I was thinking we should go back inside,” you finish weakly.
He grunts but accepts your response, standing and offering you a hand. You clutch it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. The slight cocky smirk returns before he leads you back towards the rooftop access door.
The contrast of temperature indoors is noticeable immediately. You peel your coat off and realize how damp it’s become from your snowball tussle outdoors. You’re about to bend down to unzip your boots but Dave, already divested of his wool coat, has anticipated this need, crouching down on one knee to aid in their removal. His fingers linger on each calf as he pulls the footwear free, roughened fingertips catching on the ruined pair of nylons you’re still wearing, creating little uneven rasps of sound when his calloused skin encounters the flimsy material.
You pull your sweater overhead and he stands upright, now stroking over the lingerie still shielding your breasts. You shiver and welcome his mouth back on yours, but the kiss does not last long.
“What did you really mean to say up on the roof?”
This whispered near your ear. Your fingers stutter over their current task of unfastening his belt. You feel a surge of panic trying to think of something, but the truth spills unbidden from your lips instead. “When are you going to tell me about your past?”
A sigh. Heavy. His hands encircle your bare waist. “Are you so unsatisfied with what you have in the present?”
“No, of course not, I—”
Suddenly you’re pressed back against the wall. Dave doesn’t look upset, exactly, but his gaze is unrelenting and you can’t look away.
“You’re perfect the way you are. You’re perfect for me,” you add, the truth of the words being realized as you utter them.
Now a pleased little huff of sounds escapes his mouth before he presses it back on yours. You fumble off more of each other’s clothing, finally stumbling towards the bed. You’ve only got panties and the nude colored hosiery remaining and he’s clad in briefs the same color as that void of desire pooling in the center of his eyes. He jerks the nylons and underwear off of you before pushing you onto the mattress and climbing over your body. The man has somehow managed to shed the last article of clothing in the process of your transfer to the bed, his arms lifting and pushing your legs back, his cock smoothly entering your pussy in one slick, full slide that knocks the breath from your lungs yet again.
His pace is languid, his hips thrusting with no apparent hurry or rhythm, just random presses that sink his body deeply into yours while his tongue explores your mouth and he sucks kisses into your neck. Once you begin rocking your body up to meet his the movements become more deliberate, purposeful, his face now hovering above yours to closely supervise your reactions.
“You’ve gone quiet,” you observe.
Dave snorts. “Does this sound quiet to you?” A vicious jab of his cock makes a moist sound as your bodies meet and your cheeks flush.
“You know what I mean.”
“Miss the dirty talk, do you?”
“I miss everything. I miss you.” You hang for long moments on the last word. “You’ve bewitched me, somehow. I don’t know how.”
“Really? Not the faintest idea?” He teases with another firm roll of his pelvis, then grabs the hand you have resting on the pillow beside your face, tracing the underside of the bangle he’s gifted you. “It looks good on you.”
“I love it.” Another firm kiss of his hips leaves you gasping. “I meant what I said, you know. You are perfect for me.”
The older man doesn’t reply, his face once again tucked beside your neck. You stroke through his hair, your body beginning to reach that threshold of supreme pleasure. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dave. You don’t have to be afraid—”
“—Who says I’m afraid?”
You immediately feel the tension tightening the set of his jaw, his thrusts growing more violent, making your core ache. “I don’t want anyone else,” you try to reassure him gently, hoping to calm him. Your thumb trails along to find the wedge of his bottom lip, then you lift your head to capture it. He chases your mouth when you collapse back against the pillow, one hand digging more tightly into the hip he’s bracing, the other allowing you to lace yours through it, squeezing and pressing your digits together. “Dave…”
“I don’t want anyone else, either,” he rasps. “You’re mine.” His breathing is growing unsteady. You rake your fingers through his hair and trace his shoulders. You whimper and writhe beneath him and he mirrors every sound, every movement. Your bodies are in sync. About to shatter. His eyes are now linked with your own.
You feel him shudder through his blissful relief as you twitch and spasm through your second climax of the evening. When he withdraws and sinks down beside you, you immediately curl up to his side. His fingers draw lazy circles along your spine while you recover from your mutual high. You plant the odd kiss here and there against his pectoral muscles, stroking over his ribs and heaving a sigh of contentment every now and again.
The warmth of your lovemaking begins to fade and you’re grateful when he suggests a hot shower before you properly settle underneath the covers. The pajamas you borrow from him don’t fit correctly, too long at the ankle and too tight across the chest, but you don’t care because they’re his clothes. They smell like him. His laundry detergent. You try to conjure an image of him performing that menial task, scowling as he measures the liquid in the cap before pouring it inside the dispenser. Grumbling when the buzzer goes off to announce it’s complete before shoving the sodden masses of clothing into the dryer. Scowling when he later tries to match up his socks and inevitably finds one missing. You try and fail to stifle a giggle in the darkness.
“What’s so funny?”
You shake your head, your face brushing his shirt front. “I was just thinking about you doing laundry.”
A pause. “And this is amusing why?”
You giggle again. “I can just picture you getting so pissed off and frustrated doing it.”
“I actually don’t mind it. It’s not like it’s difficult. Why are you thinking about me doing laundry, at…” There’s a pause and you feel his head lift from the pillow, apparently craning to see the alarm clock on the nightstand, “…1:30AM, exactly?”
“I was just noticing the smell of your detergent and it got me thinking and…” Your voice trails off, still wrapped in fond thoughts of your lover being domestic. You snuggle back into his arms, burrowing your face against his chest for a moment. “You make me happy,” you say softly.
A long pause. You begin to worry that maybe you shouldn’t have said it. Maybe you’re pushing him too much tonight.
“I’m glad.” His voice sounds coarse, almost as if he’s a bit choked up with emotion. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
Another lengthy silence follows. Perhaps a change of topic is in order. You don’t want to go to sleep just yet. “So what made you decide to move here, anyway?”
”I liked the location. It was time for a change.”
”How many other apartments are in this building?”
”Mmmm, I forget. Can’t say for certain. This is the largest one on the top floor, though.”
“Of course it is. Always have to have the biggest thing around. Show off.” You nudge his ribs and are relieved to hear him chuckle softly.
“The ground floor actually features a dance studio.”
“Like ballet?”
“Possibly at some point in the past. Right now it’s focused on Latin dancing. Salsa and Bachata.”
“How often do they have classes?”
“Three evenings a week, and once on Saturday mornings. I know because they haven’t stopped flooding my mailbox with flyers,” he adds with a soft growl. “It’s becoming a nuisance, having bills and correspondence competing for space with that junk.”
“Are they loud?”
“Depends on the number of people in the class. You can’t hear it up here with the other floors in between, but at ground level in the main entrance area, the lobby or even the elevator you certainly can. Sometimes it can get pretty lively. Usually around the holidays, when people give out lessons as gifts. Then it quiets down as students drop out and lose interest.”
“Do you ever stop to watch people dance?”
“Not deliberately. Just see it in passing. The instructor, she’s very…” He hesitates.
“She’s very…what? Hot? Young?” You suggest, feeling a little flare of jealousy.
“Neither. She’s…unrelenting. Always inviting me in for a free lesson.”
“Oh, she likes you.” Now you’re even more jealous.
“I sincerely doubt that. She’s married. To a woman,” he adds.
“Oh.” You scratch an itch that suddenly tickles your cheek. “I have two left feet, so I don’t think she’d want me in her class.”
“She offers different levels. You’re not meant to be an expert on day one.”
“You seem to know a lot about it for something you only observe in passing,” you remark wryly.
“Again, she is quite…persistent. I’ve been forced to hear her extol the school’s merits on more than one occasion. That’s when I’m not having the advertisements thrust at me.”
“I can’t picture you waiting around to listen. Or bothering to actually read the flyers.”
“I can be polite and formal when the situation requires it. And I suppose they make for good coasters, if nothing else.”
You bark a laugh. “Coasters? Now that I can picture. But you, polite and formal? This, I have to see.”
“I beg your pardon?” A heartbeat too late you feel his hands dive beneath your armpits to tickle you and you squeal in protest, squirming and struggling to block him.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I was just teasing you. Dave!” The comforter has shifted down past your waist, and he has your wrists now pinned on either side of your face.
“I had no idea you were so ticklish. How interesting,” he muses.
Your body relaxes against him and you feel his lips on yours. “I’d try it once. If it was with you…”
“You want to check it out tomorrow? You, the girl who’s the very definition of antisocial?”
“I’ve come out of my shell a bit,” you protest.
“A bit,” he concedes. “You want to dance with me?”
Something in the way he phrases it makes your stomach flutter. “Yes.”
“Alright. We should get some sleep then. Class is at ten.”
Your body spoons against his, the bed covers adjusted. You’ll probably regret this decision in the morning, but right now, it sounds like it could actually be fun.
***
Yes, you are indeed regretting that impulsive decision you’d made.
Butterflies in your stomach make you only pick at the breakfast Dave cooks.
“I’m not even dressed appropriately,” you grumble, eyeing the neat button front black shirt, matching trousers and oxfords that comprise the motel manager’s attire.
“You’re fine.” He takes a sip of orange juice. “Having second thoughts? Want to back out?”
“Maybe.” You set your fork down defeatedly.
“Tough. We’re going.”
You sigh. Of course he’s going to make you do this.
After you help Dave clear the table you follow him to the opposite side of the apartment, where a long hallway eventually leads to an elevator. The main lobby is double the size of the rear one, featuring a pair of couches and several armchairs, potted plants and lamps and a poster advertising the available vacancies set into a metal display frame near the entrance. When you emerge from the building you find that the rest of the sidewalks still haven’t been completely cleared yet, but a path has been shoveled to the front entrance of the studio. Dave holds the door open and you step inside. The room doesn’t look overly crowded, but you’re still early.
You recognize the instructor immediately—slender, graceful, her form practically floating over the wooden floor as she moves to greet you. Her dark hair is drawn back into a tight bun and her lips are painted a deep shade of crimson.
“Mr. Miller! What an unexpected pleasure. Who’s this you’ve brought with you?”
“My girlfriend,” he answers smoothly.
Your heart skips a beat and you dart a surprised glance in his direction. Was he serious?
“She wanted to observe. I hope that’s alright.”
“Of course! Always happy to see new faces. Do you have any previous dance experience?”
You shake your head, already starting to feel overwhelmed, your queasy stomach making you grateful that you’d skipped breakfast.
“No worries. We accommodate all levels here. The Salsa group you’ll be seeing today is three weeks in, so they’re still fairly new. Let me get a couple of chairs set up for you. The coat rack is over there.” She nods to Dave and then walks back across the room, disappearing momentarily before returning with a pair of folding chairs, beckoning you over with a jerk of her head after your coats are secured on the hangers. You sink down into the offered seat, your hands resting in tight fists on your lap.
“Class will begin in about fifteen minutes,” she says.
You wait for her to move away before whispering to your companion. “I’ve been upgraded to girlfriend status?”
One eyebrow lifts. “It seems as good an explanation as any. Or are you uncomfortable with that phrasing?”
“I guess not,” you mumble uncertainly. “Just caught me by surprise.”
“Should I have addressed you differently? Told her what a good lay you are?”
“Dave!” you frantically hiss, eyes darting around to see if anyone has heard, but none of the students gathered thus far offer more than a cursory glance in your direction.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” he murmurs.
“I am. I just…”
He shushes you, nodding in the direction of the class that seems to be getting underway and your attention shifts.
There is a brief period for warmup exercises before the students arrange themselves in some predetermined placement apart from one another. The majority of the class appears to be comprised of the expected couples, but there are other solitary figures as well.
You can tell that most of these couples are not in it for the long haul.
You immediately recognize the ones that spend more time chatting amongst themselves in between dance move instructions; that do not seem focused, are easily distracted, or clumsy with their movements, in comparison to those that perform carefully, moving smoothly and seamlessly as both individuals and as a cohesive unit, perfectly in sync with the music that issues from the CD player on the floor by the row of mirrors lining the wall.
The hour long session passes by faster than you might have imagined, the room now beginning to empty. You and Dave fold your chairs and lean them against the wall nearby.
“So. What did you think?” The teacher makes her way over to you after the last students depart while Dave volunteers to return the chairs to storage.
“There are some really talented people,” you compliment, then shuffle your feet, your voice lowering. “Personally, though, I don’t think I’d be any good at it,” you confess. “I don’t want to waste your time. I don’t even live around here. I’m on winter break, just visiting for the weekend.”
“It is a commitment,” the instructor agrees. She tips her head to one side, considering. “You haven’t been dating Dave for long, have you?”
“We met at the campground he works in the summer a few months ago.”
“He’s very reserved, isn’t he? I don’t mean shy; I mean he keeps things hidden. A bit mysterious. A tough nut to crack.”
“Yes,” you agree.
“Speak of the devil,” the woman announces loudly when the man reappears. “Your girlfriend was just telling me about how you met.”
“Did she?” His gaze shifts to yours.
“I said we met at the campground,” you reply.
“Right. Well, what did you think? About the class, I mean.”
“It’s cool. I just know I’d be trash at it.”
“Nonsense.” The instructor interrupts firmly. “Do you know what the most important thing is for a dancer to have? Especially in a setting intended to be shared with a partner?”
“Having a sense of rhythm?” You quip.
“Well, that certainly helps. But I’m talking about something else. The connection between the two people. Unity. Trust. And a spark,” she slaps her hands together and you jump, startled. “That is something that can’t be taught, and I think you two just might have it. If you have some more free time, I could go over a few basic moves. Let you see how it feels. You’re not obligated to join if you don’t want to.”
“I really couldn’t anyway. School, you know…” Your voice trails off and you glance in Dave’s direction. He nods subtly. “Yeah, okay. Sorry I’m not really dressed appropriately,” you apologize.
The teacher shrugs. “I’m sure this was an impromptu decision to visit today. Sometimes the best things in life happen spontaneously, right?” She grins widely and you return the smile a little less confidently. You think the woman is friendly, but she’s also a bit…overbearing. Over exuberant? You’re not sure what the word you’re searching for is. She is definitely daunting; you entirely understand what Dave had meant earlier.
“Come stand over here. Mr. Miller—”
“—Dave,” he corrects.
“—Dave, right over here. Feet close together. Arms up. Not in fists, dear; you’re not going to be attacking your partner.”
I might want to after this, you think wryly.
“Now I want you to watch me. Left foot moves forward on one. A very small step, you see? Almost like a shuffle. No bounce. Just one sure step. My right foot now goes up on the count of two. I’m not moving it anywhere other than straight up. Now I place it back down and my left foot rejoins it on the count of three. Right back to the center, right back where I started. I’ll repeat it again.”
You watch closely. It looks simple enough, but when it comes time to try it out, you find yourself suddenly panicking, forgetting which foot goes where at what time.
“Dave, that was perfect. Now you. Let’s break it down. Only the first step. Repeat as I go. Left foot forward. Now right foot lifts. Now right foot lowers. Left foot back. Yes. Now try again.”
It goes a little smoother after you practice a few more times. You glance at Dave. The man was born for this, that lithe figure of his easily managing the instructions as if he’s been doing this for years.
“The next part is very similar to the first. Start with your right foot, move it back on five. Transfer your weight to that foot. Now lift your left foot and place back down on six. Then bring your right foot back to the center on seven. Watch me one more time.”
She repeats the steps, counting out each one. You manage to replicate the pattern on the first try this time.
“Good. You’re relaxing, getting a feel for it. Let’s add a little music this time.”
The instructor fusses with the CD player and you spare your partner another glance. He’s watching you closely, a little smirk haunting the corner of his mouth, and your stomach flip flops.
The other woman resumes her place before you. “Alright, here we go. Putting it all together now. One, two, three, five, six, seven and one, two, three…Good, keep going.”
With the music playing, the steps seem to flow a little easier…until you let yourself be completely distracted by Dave, who manages to turn in a neat circle and make his way closer to you, his body moving in perfect time to the music. He abandons the correct posture to grab one of your hands, pulling you against him and then dipping you backward, his other hand resting on your spine to support you while he tugs you back upright.
You’ve completely forgotten that there’s another person observing the pair of you in the studio, your gaze solely focused on the gray eyes fixed on yours.
“I don’t think that’s one of the moves,” you say softly.
”I like to improvise,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave lower.
“I can see it’s going to be difficult to keep you two apart.”
The dance teacher’s voice startles you, freeing your from Dave’s stare.
“Why don’t we try something a little more interactive for the two of you now? I’ll teach you the butterfly move to finish the lesson.”
You try to relax and listen to her directions but now that you’re facing him, touching him, your mind feels hazy. The feel of his hands and that secret little smile he offers keep distracting you.
You struggle with these new, more complicated steps and definitely step on Dave’s feet more than once when you first begin learning how to let him turn your body around, but he proves masterful in his movements once again, effortlessly covering for your missteps and guiding you smoothly along. He’s a natural at this. You don’t know why you’re surprised.
You’re warm and perspiring by the time the studio owner announces the introductory lesson is complete. Dave murmurs something about the two of you going to grab a coffee and you readily agree, deciding to use the restroom before you leave. The older woman accompanies you, waiting for you by the exit while you wash your hands.
“He’s really got a hold of you, hasn’t he? Falling for him hard.”
You pause in the middle of drying your hands, feeling your cheeks redden. “Hmm? Yeah, I guess.” You’re not about to confess your feelings to a virtual stranger.
“There’s something about him. Besides the obvious charm, I mean. Lurking beneath the surface. A bit of darkness. I noticed it right away, the first time we spoke. I have a sense for these things. My mother was a fortune teller. I think she passed a little of her psychic ability onto me.”
You crumple the paper towel into a tight ball and toss it in the wastebin, then force yourself to meet her gaze. “I don’t really follow any of that. Anyway, he’s been great to me so far.”
A half smile curls a corner of her painted mouth. “Oh, that’s alright. Don’t get me wrong; I genuinely like the guy. I just thought I should warn you. As one woman to another…you might want to exercise a little caution. Be careful until you’re certain he’s right for you.”
You move to stand in front of her, waiting for the other woman to shift so you can access the door. You don’t like the sound of whatever she’s implying and you find yourself eager to leave and get back to Dave. “Okay. Got it. Thanks for the lesson.”
She shrugs and nods, stepping away from the door. “Thank you for coming. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
“Maybe,” you reply breezily, fairly certain that you will not be visiting the studio again.
For a moment, the yellow rabbit has meaning again. He is extracted and shipped to a barn, then covered with a tarpaulin, waiting for the highest bidder, for someone to make use of him again.
Waiting, perhaps, for you.
No explicit content, 2.6k words, revised edition 12/1/24
They call it La Verkin Motel, but the residents living there call it Last Chance Motel, because that’s exactly what it is: the last place the unwanted dregs of society end up; the last stop on the road to hell.
