You watch him through the window of your car, feeling curious peering in but seeing no reason to. He talks with two others, a man dressed in a drab suit and another, younger, dressed all in grey and white. He is a treat for the eyes, this young one; White muscle-shirt taut over his stomach and stone jeans riding low on his hips like he knows something about style. But you know he doesn’t; you know neither of them do. It’s your job to know these things.

A confused wife had called last week, newly-wed and uncomfortable with her husband’s frequent business trips. She said over and over she didn’t feel threatened, not really. The man worked at a Fortune 500 company, surrounded by nothing but stuffy business-men all day and night. But something about it just didn’t sit right with her. In your experience, even stuffy business-men are something to worry about.

They don’t look like business-men anymore as they wave goodbye to their older company and start walking away. They walk side-by-side, crossing lanes and boundaries as they head toward their hotel two blocks down. You’re careful not to follow them too closely, after all, you know where they’re going and you don’t want to give yourself away. But you can’t help staring at them both. The paramour, tall and lanky with a prominent nose, dark coffee waves swaying in the city breeze. His glasses reflect the neon and he adjusts them as he walks a little closer to the man beside him; A cropped blond with a pair of jewels for eyes and a smile like a wolf’s. The husband. You’re already sure of who started this. The blond’s grin says it all.

But maybe you’ve been watching them too long. All week, tailing the brunet’s every move... Your eyes must be getting tired from all that staring. Keeping mental note of every time he pushes his glasses back up his nose and every time he stumbles over his dress shoes. Taking pictures every time that blond makes eyes at him in the office, every time they go to ‘lunch’ together or out for a ‘smoke break’...

He’s seen you. Twice now, and you know you’re damn close to blowing your cover even if the first time didn’t really sink in. Back in that crowded little diner when you walked in and he walked out, he held the door and turned back to talk to Blondie, not noticing the way your eyes stayed on him. And once at the hotel, sitting in the lobby and watching him check in. That time you know he saw you, gaze jerking to your figure and watching carefully behind slightly-smudged glasses. Caught and slightly ashamed, your eyes went back to your newspaper and stuck there.

His eyes stayed with you long after he left.

They were at the hotel now, glancing once back to the rental car you’re driving. You turn your head like you’re about to go left. The gold and glass doors swing open for them and they go inside without looking at you again. A sigh of relief escapes you as you park around the back and switch the camera on. The one you’d placed so carefully outside their window. When you broke into their room that morning.

Strange, the husband brought enough clothes to stay for a week. The lover brought two suits and a pair of ‘business casual’ slacks. His side of the closet bare. All of his clothes were still in the bags. The gel and comb that belonged to the husband was brand new, just opened. The comb the lover used was old, some of the teeth were broken. It lay on the bedside table, far from the dressing mirror. Yet they walked together like they were perfectly in sync, barely noticing the world around them was watching. You were watching.

Something about the brunet made your body stand on-edge. The glint of his dark eyes behind those glasses...

You zoom in on the doorway and in about eight minutes they arrive, brushing into the room as though it wasn’t worth their time. The blond shut the door and the brunet went to the mini-bar for a tiny bottle of Stoli. As unfaithful as any husband could be, the one you’re supposed to be watching has already pulled off his tie and thrown it aside while your eyes slid over the gangly brunet without shame. No reason to stop staring. You won’t be caught, not unless they make a point of watching out the window. Your only concern now is if they shut it.

Fumbling with the ice, the lover hands a glass to his blond and makes a motion of salute. While the husband downs his glass and clacks the ice against his teeth, he sips slowly and watches his Adam’s Apple bob. As expected, this friendly camaraderie doesn’t last long. Your eyes focus in and the lover makes a move, taking the glass from the husband’s fingers and stepping closer into his empty arms.

It doesn’t take much. The husband traps his lover’s face in his hands, kissing him and swaying them both together without much ado. Long practiced, the lover shimmies his hands slowly down the blond’s back and moves them beneath the granite-colored jeans. You watch and your eyes are fixed. Glued and stuck. The pit of your stomach starts to sink.

Their kisses are wild and tender, breaking and meshing and breaking again. The muscle-shirt comes off and the brunet does not hesitate to touch. His blond’s chest goes tense at the feel of his long white fingers, spidering down and up again. The glasses are taken, set aside on the table and left there. Milk white hands touch tanned skin all over; thumbing over the collarbone, playing his ribs like piano keys. But they’re kissing again and you can hear their breath grow heavy, feel your own do the same. Your lungs jump when you hear the lover pull back with a gasp, cracked and strange over the mic. But God, does it still sound good...

“Fuck,” The husband whispers, combing a hand through his lover’s hair. “Fuck, okay...”

“You wan’ to-”

“Yeah, okay, yeah-”

“Hard. Fuck me.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I like it.”

“Okay, shit, alright...”

You curse to yourself, listening so hard. Chewing on your lip and staring at that screen. The lover is losing his shirt, throwing it off with a dopey grin and kicking his shoes to the side. The husband is fooling with his belt, dropping his pants and stepping out of them toward the bed. Brunet gets there first, dropping backward and moving to sit up. He doesn’t make it far. The blond pushes him back down, cheesy wolfy grin all over his face. Their lips fall together again and you watch, stomach falling apart and legs weak enough to shake. You’re growing hard.

Their kiss ends and the husband takes his lover’s body like an unfinished work of art. Lips skimming over his neck, he hears the brunet gasp as they land against his chest. His lips encircle a nipple and you hear the brunet groan, sees the legs fall open to reveal him. Thick, growing with a heavy arousal. You stare at it, close your eyes, then open them to stare again. You’re shaking like he is, begging yourself not to do anything about it. It’s nearly impossible to move your hand away.

Blond husband touches his lover. The lover throws his hands up in full surrender, full submission. It’s as though he is tied with invisible ropes.

You unzip your fly, hands making a harsh scramble past your briefs and wrapping around your erection as you close your eyes in defeat.

You’re touching yourself. You don’t want to, but you have to, so you’re rubbing and pulling a little harder to get it over with. A breathy moan floats through the speaker, damaged by the bad reception but only amplified to you. The static seems to cling to you like wet plastic. Your lip is raw and bruised but you bite it again anyway, hearing the breathing pick up and the bodies you’re supposed to be watching shift.

“Right there, C’mon...”

“Fuck, you’re so...”

Your eyes open again. They’ve changed. The husband is breathing hard, gripping his lover’s hips and wrapping an arm around his waist. Brunet’s facing the window, pushing back on the blond’s erection, closing his eyes and penetrating himself. Pale skin, sliding over that golden tan. Taut and strong and milky white. He’s spread in his lap, displaying himself, hand gripping the husband’s hair and legs planted on either side. The bedroom mirror shows the husband’s broad shoulders and back, but not a glimpse of the lover. You barely notice.

“Oh...” The lover’s mouth drops open and his head falls back in passion. “Oh, fuck... Like that. Harder, c’mon...”

Blond’s hips flow and thrust like a wave. Brunet’s eyes open wide and he gasps once, twice. “Okay, okay...” You watch the lover push back, and your hand starts moving again. The husband thrusts again, hand gripping across his chest. “Like that?”

“Yeah, c’mon, do it...”

His dark eyes go wide again when the husband starts moving hard and merciless. But he shocks you big time when they look right at you.

Right at the camera.

With a black-eyed stare that lets you know he’s doing this for you, even if he doesn’t know you at all.

Your hand stops but your body is on fire. You know he can’t see you, but you feel his gaze anyway. Hot and sweet and begging, commanding. His hips thrust back and his body poses in ecstacy, just for you. All for you. This whole pretty scene. His eyes stay with you, lips curling into a smirk as he gasps for the husband.

“Uh-huh...” His eyes sear through you. “Yeah... Oh, fuck-”

The husband loses it, buried inside him and groaning loud as he comes. The lover is still achingly hard. You can feel it because he wants you to, staring out the window and showing off the erection. Telling you he’s not hard for him anymore. He’s hard because you’re watching and he wants you to see everything.

Chasing his breath, the blond slumps against his partner’s back and not even at the last second do you know what mistake he has made.

The brunet, the lover, the man you’ve been watching more than your mark, surprises you. He sits up, allows the blond to pull out, then pushes him down onto the bed, lips attacking his neck like he wants to start again. His bulge rubs against the sheets but his lips fasten to the man’s neck and only then do you see the blood.

Running down his chin. Dripping onto the husband’s chest.

The husband doesn’t move. He’s sated and he doesn’t realize. But the brunet reaches between them to touch himself, eyes half on the window as he drinks the redness straight from the source. You lose your breath, whole body shaking as he dares you with his eyes. You can hear him as he takes his fill, see him as the husband goes white and limp and unliving.

Come stop me.

Come stake me.

Come fuck me before you do either.

A minute later the feed cuts, and you know it was him who did it. The lover.

Your whole body shakes and you’re still hard. You want a taste. But you’re already driving away, flying fast against the night because you know he’d want to taste you too.

--

He’s been watching you since that night. In your three hundred years of living you’ve never seen such a persistent man. It’s been a month and he knows your name by now. He knows who you are and what you are. How you got here, when, and a list that includes at least a fourth of the people you’ve fed upon. You know this, because you’ve been watching him too. Just... every once in a while, following him until he reaches his dingy little apartment. So sad you can’t enter without an invitation. You would’ve cleaned the place up by now.

For about a week the young detective thought he was crazy. He became rather jumpy and that made following him an arduous task. But eventually, as all mortals do, he got tired. Slept and drank for two days straight. Then came back with the resolve of a warrior and started tailing you like a hunting dog.

Now you have an observing eye, watching you as you finish your drink and talk to your next meal. It’s rather entertaining. The man is watching calmly, which makes you wonder why the hell he’s so confident. He’s got something up his sleeve. And the look on his face says he knows you’ve got an interest. What he doesn’t know is that you’ve been tasting his blood on the air since the night began. The scent is on him, probably from the way he chews on his lip when nervous. But it’s all you can think about at present. Annoying, especially when you’ve been trying to hunt.

“What’s on your mind?” The meal was tart but all air, not worth the long seduction. You would have him tonight, no chase.

Blinking out of your thoughts, you give him a shy smile. “It’s nothing.”

“C’mon, don’t play that game.” The little boy had the most leering smirk. His blood probably tasted of sulfur. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Leaning against the bar, you slid a hand over his knee. “I’m thinking about what I’m going to do with you when I get you back to my apartment.”

The detective watched your hand. His gaze was like sunlight, burning through the skin. Your meal didn’t notice. “Then let’s blow, baby. This scene’s tired.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Uncouth slang... “I want to dance. Maybe have another drink.”

“Sure.” But he didn’t sound happy, and inside you smiled at the thought of his frustration. Twisting him around your finger has been easy as anything. You know he won’t get too mad. It’s all just fuel for the fire, isn’t it? Impatient boy. He might not make it to your apartment. Which might be better anyway. Covering your tracks is easier when you can just leave the filth behind.

The detective sees you move and watches, eyeing the way you take the livestock’s hand and pull. It’s not a struggle to get him to the floor. But he insists on claiming you with his arms, sliding them around your waist and holding you close to him. You look up at him and smile, though you wonder how this man would feel if he knew you were thinking of using that little maneuver to feed. Very smooth, and it leaves the neck wide open.

Lucky your claim is on your thigh. Those bite-marks always make people so uncomfortable.

The detective has left his chair.

You smell the blood coming closer, tainted with something else. Medicine? No, a more metallic scent. And something’s not quite right about it...

But then he brushes by, and a white flash of hunger and heat tears your empty stomach in half. The smell is brutal and gorgeous, something you wish to claim for yourself. Worth a chase, if so needed. It makes you stumble a little, it is so strong. But the blood is not fresh. It is at least a week old.

He takes your target’s hand. Doesn’t even look at you. Just smoothly, quietly, draws him away. Looking into his eyes with an adorable finesse. You wonder what his game plan is. Warn the meal? No. He wouldn’t be fool enough to speak of your... condition. Not that it matters much. You have the imbecile so wrapped around your finger he’s-

Leaving?

Slipping through the crowd you spot him heading for the coatroom and grabbing his jacket, leaving quickly and without dignity. He looks angry, and the detective is smiling, which can only mean mischief given the circumstances. Either way, there goes dinner. Not that you’re all that disappointed.

You have a new meal to look forward to.

The crowd is thickening, the music is getting hard. It’s beating under your feet and making it a little harder to hear. But his heartbeat is a second faster, his blood is thrumming through your ears. You pass through the crowd, searching, and when you’re near him you can smell that sweet redness thick and rushing, hear his whole body chill to a slow calm.

The beat is pushing you closer, and you wrap a long arm around his hips. He pauses but does not lose his cool. It’s as though he was waiting for you. Waiting for your arms, waiting for them to be so cold.

Funny. He’s wearing a turtleneck.

The song is a beat for two; an intimate two, and you assume you’ve been intimate enough already. Showing him your body. Showing him your teeth.

You don’t pull him, but let yourself close in, pressing your body against his back and letting your nose fall into his neck. Yes. It’s coming from here, under the turtleneck. That sharp, delicious smell. Was he bitten? Turned? No. No, he wouldn’t have a heartbeat. And all that blood would be gone...

“Well he left awful fast.” You rasp it pleasantly against his neck as his hands grab yours and hold them away. You are not deterred. “What did you tell him?”

“You’re Positive.” He smirks, because he knows you can hear him above the beat. His grip on your hand goes lax, and he closes his eyes as he folds into your embrace, all too calm for someone who knows what they’re dealing with. Oh, he has an ace up his sleeve alright. It’s just a matter of waiting for him to use it. “So sad. You look so healthy.”

“You know, keeping a man from his food is cruelty.” Your fingers escape and slide less than subtly past his hip-bone, rubbing a thumb over the jutting skin and wondering why he hasn’t eaten. He can most-certainly afford to eat. There’s more than one angry spouse in the city, or there should be given your track record.

He slaps your hand away, but you make him regret it, lips teasing along the turtleneck. “He has a wife. And two little girls. He doesn’t deserve to be your midnight snack.”

See? Track record.

You nose the neck down a little, and the creamy pale skin delights you. The thrum of his pulse is still covered, but your lips skim along his neck and his heartbeat picks up considerably. “So you are playing games? You watch me hunt and you take away my prey? What do you want? Why do you seek my unhappy attention?”

“C’mon,” He laughs, dry because he’s losing his breath. “How else was I supposed to get it? Couldn’t sleep for a week after that stunt you pulled...”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You lie, but in that tone that’s meant to be sarcastic. Your hands find their way around him again and you smell the way he desires you. It’s all over his skin, heavy and sweet.

“Don’t care.” He sighs as the beat heats up and he rocks his body backward, shelving you together with him. A rush sparks through your long-dead veins. “I know all about you.”

“I know.” You whisper as you unbuckle his belt. “I know all about you, too. I know who you are. I know everything.”

“Not everything.” He slows his hips together with yours. His voice is cool, still so cool, with your lips at his throat and your hand at his zipper. He should be scared by now. Right? “Don’t do this here.”

You chortle a little, unzipping him and nuzzling his neck. “Why not?”

“People will see.”

“They’ll watch.” You kiss his neck and rub him through his briefs. They’re a little wet already. “They’ll see you like this and remember it. Beautiful.”

“Fuck.” He mutters, grooving his ass against your erection. It appreciates the attention, and you give some more of your own, pushing against his ass and thumbing over him easy and light. He gasps once, then thrusts into your hand, beckoning you to continue. You comply, sliding your palm up and down the cotton as he groans in delight.

He’s getting you off too, the way he’s going. Riding backwards, the noises are pure temptation. You’re sure if you taste him you’ll explode.

People are looking now. First the couples closest, then the couples around them. The boy is a fucking star, candy mouth open and those gorgeous sounds, those little double-gasps and the choking groans he tries not to let loose. He’s rubbing against your body, penis hard and red inside the cotton. Everyone’s looking at him, and you display him, dragging your fingers up and down, pulling up the turtleneck a little and hearing some gasps. You don’t care. You’re eyeing every lookie-loo in the cursed crowd, daring them to go for it, daring them to try. But they’re not watching you. They’re watching him. Entranced by him.

“Please...” The whisper is so hot you lose your head for a minute, forgetting this kid has an ace. Forgetting he could have something to damage you. “C’mon...”

“Let me...”

And you figure, just a taste. Just a little taste. He won’t even notice, if you’re working him right. So your lips descend, pull back the turtleneck. Your eyes are closed, you feel his ass pressing against you and it’s driving you worse than crazy. Your fangs sink in, and for a moment you taste the best blood, the most deliciously bitter blood...

And then your left fang starts to hurt and you hear him yelp, then take a breath and still. But your left fang still hurts. Really hurts. No, burns.

You snap back, clutching your lips and holding back a horrible, pathetic sound. This burning, ugly and evil and disgusting, stretches from your fang to everywhere. As though it’s beating around your body. Your hand leaves his erection and you stumble back, outraged. What kind of trick is this?!

But then, in the club light, you see it. A tattoo, tiny and precisely at the damn vein. A little black cross. Now sporting a fang mark right through the center.

You feel certain, had you seen his face right then it would have made you even more enraged.

His hair hangs over the wound, not really covering it but camouflaging it enough. The crowd quickly finds other places to look and you try to move close again but he steps away. He’s zipping his fly, fiddling with his belt and leaving you there stranded, hand over your mouth. And now you’re scared.

Now you’re fucking scared. Because he’s got you ready to follow him.

--

Just a small tale about a vampire shocking a human and that human turning the tables. If you want a continuation, let me know.