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"You've got the lust, B. And I'm not just talking about screwing vampires."
~Faith, Consequences~
Lust.
Lust, rolling through my veins, music in my hips, everything moving just the way it's supposed to be. Sometimes I think that the beat of the music is what echoes in my veins, not the repetitive thump-thump of other people's heartbeats. For me, the beat of my heart is whatever's playing on the speakers right then.
At other times, I'm not even sure I have a heart. It's just this cold spot in my body, this empty place that freezes over whenever I think of her. B. All soft pale flesh and perfect blond hair.
Which is why I try not to think of her. Which is why I stay on the dance floor, moving and writhing an letting my heart pump hot searing blood through me, red and passionate like life. Yes, I love this. Yes, I can never get enough of this. I'm all decked out like a tiger, in a animal-print shirt and tight black pants. Boots, lipstick, animal grin. Woman and tiger. I'm everything tonight.
And of course, I'm looking for a victim. Seems to me like I'm always looking for a victim, but tonight's special. I'm out of money, and I need a big strong man to take care of me. Or at least to give me all his cash.
Yeah, I originally came here to pick up a guy--to fuck, maybe, and then subsequently rob. But it's almost like I'm tired of sex. It certainly doesn't give me as much of a high as slaying does--slaying humans, I mean; I can't remember the last time I killed a demon...and lately I've had to imagine B's face just to get me in the mood. Biting her lip, fire in her eyes as she stakes a vamp. The lust. It's right there, girlfriend. Just like it was when we danced together, the music pushing us together like two magnets. Hips locked.
But I change my mind about a guy as soon as I see her: the woman. She's out of place in this club; looks like she should be havin' drinks in some fancy place. I can tell that she's slumming tonight--you know, looking for some young stud to boff and run.
However, judging from the way she's eyeing me, men aren't her thing.
Whatever. I can play that. Not like I haven't done it before, and this one I'll actually enjoy, if it comes down to it.
Black dress suit, perfectly tailored. Perfectly coifed hair the color of mahogany. Red lips and tiger eyes, face set in a knowing grin. Drinkin' some kind of cocktail and eyeing me on the dance floor. She's pretty, maybe even beautiful. Not like the bull dykes who are usually the women that hit on me. Not that I mind that type or anything, but I like being the butch one, you know? I like a really femme girl, when I go for them. Someone soft and sweet; shy even. I like to be on top.
This woman isn't shy, but she's defiantly a woman's woman. I can tell that she's the kind who wears lingerie under her suits, so she can feel sexy while she's bossing around the big boys. Leader of a company, something like that. Likes to fuck her secretary right on top of the copy machine, maybe even on top of her big desk.
Knowing her eyes are on me, I heat up, rubbing against whoever comes my way. God, I love this--the power I have over her. Everyone in the place knows that I'm the one in charge here; I'm the center of the room, pulling their attention to me like a black hole. All eyes on me, just like I like.
I almost go over and ask her to dance--well, not ask, but pull her up against me whether she likes it or not--but that quickly goes out the window. First of all, she doesn't seem like the type of woman who dances; not to this music anyway. Slow and sexy...jazz, maybe. Hips moving, dragging her skirt up to show the tops of her stockings, garter belt, black lace panties.
The second reason is that I never make the first move in a sitch like this. She has to come to me.
And she does, as soon as the song is over and I walk up to the bar, sweaty and panting. Hair in my face. She murmurs something to the bartender and he pours me something alcoholic, not knowing that I'm underage and maybe not caring. Most people don't, nowadays. I sure as hell know the cops wouldn't.
My drink tastes like cranberry, and the woman smiles so secretively as I drink it down that I wonder if she persuaded the bartender to drug it or something. But no, she just seems amused. Her smile is sensual. Sexy as hell, this woman.
I look her up and down, just like she is me. Even better-looking up close. She raises an eyebrow. "Hello." Her voice is sexy, low, smooth like ice cream. Yum. Hungry and horny, baby. That's me, always.
I smirk. "Hey. Can I help you? Cause, I'm not usually the solicitous type, if you're expecting somethin' from me." Wow, solicitous--big word. Those two years in high school must've taught me something. Or maybe being around College Girl and her campus pals, even just for a few days, improved my IQ. Whatever. Thinking of them makes me crush the glass in my hands, red sticky liquid spilling over my fingers.
The woman's eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, but her expression doesn't change. She just hands me a napkin, not bothering to pull her fingers away before I touch her. She licks the residual liquid off her hand with a small pink tongue, like a kitten.
I wipe my hands, the look back at her, sort of embarrassed. These mood swings are a bitch, but she doesn't seem to mind them. Instead she grins at me, then says, "Do you want to go somewhere?"
Bingo! This bitch is mine, in my back pocket. She looks rich, too. I smile back, tiger-grinned: "Sure. Your place or mine?"
We walk out the door, into the big big world. Lust in our veins, two similar animals.
