Angel considered foreplay an art, in much the same way Angelus did torture. For Angelus, cutting straight to the kill was clumsy and uncouth and left you with a mutilated body that was cold and lifeless. Torture brought him their pain, suffering, voices choked with fear, the pleading and begging for it stop, to end. Their pain was his pleasure. Angel’s art lay purely in the pleasure, the passion, the warmth of another person. Flesh against flesh, building heat, sighs that became moans, and fingers that danced across skin like an artist’s brush on canvas.
But Angel’s experience with Buffy had taught him that passion could yield its own pain and suffering, its own brand of torture. So he’d learned to distance himself from the ultimate pleasure. To make foreplay an art form like no other, to indulge his passion but curtail his pleasure … and his happiness.
There was never any hurry, no rush to gain the ultimate prize, he’d lived long enough to know that, for some, time passed at a different pace. For some, time was fleeting, the future temporary, and death inevitable, but not for him. The only inevitability was that the sun would set just as sure as it would rise, the one thing to intrude on his pleasure, the one time, that for him, the clock was ticking. The vampire in him watched out for the sunrise when he took his pleasure outdoors, but inside, away from the reminder, safe and secure from the passage of time, he indulged his passion. Enjoyed their pleasure, took them beyond the boundaries of simple sex and swallowed their release as if it were it own.
Men and women alike, it was all the same. Body, shape, gender, none of it mattered to him. What mattered was chemistry, physical attractions, pheromones. A casual glance, a meaningful touch, a heated argument. It was all prelude to passion, overture to orgasms, introduction to intensity.
Angel began the seduction the instant he saw his victim, long before he moved in close. He would make them aware of his intentions before they realized they were even more than mildly interested. A subtle crowding of personal space, long, drawn out questions and answers, his eyes never once leaving their face. Holding a stare just a little longer than necessary, until the air around them crackled with attraction and he felt the heat from their bodies reach out and warm his own.
When the time came that they were alone, he would stalk his prey. Sometimes talking, bantering, arguing. Let them think he was distracted as he moved, circled. He felt his own muscles tighten, his steps lighter, his senses heightened.
Then he’d step into their comfort zone until he was right in front of them, seizing the moment, taking whatever feeble grasp of control they’d fooled themselves into thinking they’d had. A touch, a kiss, the lightest of caresses, so fleeting they’d have to ease into him to feel it, the whispered caress of his fingertips against warm skin, along a curved jaw, high cheekbones. Skin that sometimes felt as soft as silk beneath his touch, sometimes chaffed as he encountered the coarse feel of stubble, as he bent his head to taste. Angel was accustomed to his height, he’d long ago learned to step into an embrace without overwhelming, without looming over them, just close enough to hear their heartbeats quicken.
Slow, kind and gentle. Letting them know that they were safe. Fear did not do it for him anymore. Terror did not turn him on. He wanted to be welcomed, invited. The begging, the pleading, came later, but not for him to stop, never for it to stop.
Angel loved the act of undressing. The baring of skin, the most private of parts, secret places. Unless objected to, he took this action and made it his. He enjoyed the feel of different fabrics in his hands. The soft cottons, slippery satins, rough denim, texture of lace. The different buttons, the zippers, the tiny hooks found on silk dresses. The very many ways humans kept themselves hidden behind fashion.
He never turned off the lights, left them in the glow of a soft warm lamp, or candles that flickered and cast shadows as they burnt. Though he could see perfectly in the dark, he wanted his guest to know that he saw them. He wanted to watch the heat of passion develop in their eyes, to let them see it in his face. To completely understand he desired nothing more than this moment, this right now.
Naked bodies wearing nothing but perfume or cologne. Heated skin that filled the room with scent. Hairs that bristled at the barest touch and stood on end. The rush of blood that caused the thumping rhythm of beating hearts. His tongue pushing past lips and intruding into mouths, scraping along teeth, biting lips. Gasps, moans and the feel of hot breath on flesh as they were pulled into his embrace. Swollen cocks, raised hips, damp skin, as arms entwined and bodies meshed. Touch for touch, hands that roamed, small or large, soft or callused as they grasped at him, dug into shoulder muscle and held him close.
Leaving bruised, reddened lips behind, he moved to earlobes and temples. His mouth warm now from the ragged breaths he’d stolen. His kisses gentled as his tongue sought their taste, pressed lightly against eyelids, lapped at the sweat on their brow and smoothed across their temples. The moment of trust when he ventured to the neck, the collarbone, the panic, fingers that tightened on his biceps, a tripping of the heartbeat when he put his mouth on the artery. Skin slick with sudden sweat, breath held. But Angel did not linger there for too long.
It was a test.
This is when they could choose. Sleep with the vampire. Know what I am. What I could do. What the demon in me cries out for, constantly, incessantly. Take the pleasure I offer you. Trust in my control.
Angel would deliberately step back and look deep into wary eyes.
What his lover’s saw was Angel’s calm, patient brown eyes, face expressionless, open. And they knew that they could take that choice, get dressed, go back to their life and nothing would change. Angel would never mention this, no grudges held. They could return to casual friendship and this would never be an issue.
But it would not be offered again.
When they stayed, his lips curved into that familiar, warm smile and Angel moved them to the nearest bed, couch, plush rug. Lay them down. Stand over them with his proud hard cock jutting out in front of him. His skin so white, so pale, he resembled a marble statue.
There was no turning back now. No stopping for a phone call, no interruptions at the door. Short of fire or attack this was where you were, and Angel was in charge.
He let himself be touched, but not diverted.
Angel started with his hands, his long fingers exploring. Find the surprising ticklish spots, so he knew where to avoid, find the wildly different erogenous places, the places to concentrate. A light caress behind the knee of a woman, the inner thigh of a man, under the arm, the back of the neck, and nearly always the nipples. Too much time could not be spent here, biting and licking, sucking. The soft moans, lips bitten until he smelled blood in the air around him.
Moving down, hard cocks and tightened balls, swollen clitoris and wet vagina, the aroma of musk, the salty taste, and the burning heat of desire. Sometimes letting hands guide him, sometimes holding wrists down. He sucked and tongued and teased. Scraped his teeth on sensitive skin, buried his face in the warmth. Listened as they cried his name, thrashed above him, incoherent words, blasphemous curses, tears, and he just kept going. He took them beyond where they’d ever been before, made the passion rise again and again.
Occasionally he played. Tied arms and legs with silken scarves to iron bedposts. Using tools developed in darker times by humans proclaiming religious superiority over each other and were now toys designed to bring the sharp clarity of pain to the chaos of pleasure.
Tease them, bring them up to the crest of a wave only to back off, take his ministrations elsewhere. Ignore the cries, the pleads, the clutching hands, the scratch of nails that drew his own blood. Then just when they were sure he would never, ever, let there be release. He gave it and more.
When they thought they were spent, when they lay dazed, satiated and soaked in their own juices, then Angel would indulge himself. Push his dripping, aching cock into tight, fiery, wet places, using his fingers and hands to bring completion again. Just so he could feel the spasms, the clenching, the warmth, from the inside.
Licking up the sweat that pooled along the spine when he took them from behind. Gripping their hips, he left bruises that marked them for weeks. Smashed them back into the bed or floor and hold their faces in his hands. Make them look in his eyes as he came in hard, shuddering thrusts on top of them. He kisses again, when he is done. Lips covering lips, if only to silence the quiet whispers of love and life and devotion and eternal promises.
Then finally letting them drop into a deep, exhausted sleep. Angel would pull them close, his cock still hard against them, his arms wrapped possessively around them. His face as smooth, as expressionless as ever. Reveling in the body heat he’s stolen from them, his skin temperature almost normal, almost human.
Angel closed his eyes. Listened to the beat of their heart, the breath in their lungs and dreamt of when he was human.
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