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Jonathan felt the Count’s breath on his neck and held very still. There was no helping his pulse, though—it thundered and bucked, so loud in his ears that he was certain it vibrated all through the space between them. Perhaps Count Dracula could taste it against his tongue already.
What a pretty little piece of bait he had made himself; strewn across the lounge, clad only loosely in the lush dressing gown the Count had gifted him, collar laid open and one slender, pale thigh exposed to the night air. All his small hairs stood on end as Dracula loomed over him. There was no warmth to be gained in the other body pressing itself to him: only wits-scattering dread, and guilt-laden excitement, as the cold, white hand accepted his invitation. Five hateful fingers glided with grace and patience up the inside of his thigh, spreading gooseflesh in its wake, while the soft, wet sounds of tongue to lips preceded an icy kiss.
Jonathan couldn’t keep up the ruse of sleep; he sucked in a quiet breath as Dracula’s mouth wrapped around his throat. His neck throbbed, as if all the blood in his body were rushing into his jugular, presenting itself to his hungry guest. Dracula’s rough, corpse-cold tongue massaged it gratefully. The scrape of Dracula’s fangs to the tiny pin-prick scars already adorning his traitor throat sent a shudder all through him. Just as his survival instincts surged to the forefront, wailing at him to protest or flee, the devil’s fingers reached and embraced his equally traitorous, half-hard cock. He gave only an aborted jerk of resistance, and his breath left him in a thin moan.
“Shh,” Dracula soothed, stroking him hard—Jonathan whimpered, revoltingly more aroused by the threat of death that remained at his throat than the pumping fist. “Hush, now.”
His jaws opened, and for an instant that seemed to consume entire eons, Jonathan lay helplessly frozen. The two sharpened points breached the first layer of skin. With that tiny pain he bolted to life once more; he grabbed the Count by the neck with both hands and pushed him back. It was only the element of surprise that allowed him this brief victory. Dracula’s strength was so great, he could barely hope to contain the beast for a few seconds. Determined to make use of the very small advantage while it lasted, instead of trying to fight the creature back, he instead pulled Dracula forward again: thin, red lips claimed by his full, trembling ones.
The hand about his cock tightened in reflexive surprise—Jonathan writhed, moaning against Dracula’s mouth. It wasn’t until he tasted his own blood there that he realized he’d waited a beat too long in retaliating. When he tilted his chin up, seeking deeper admittance, his skin pulled and he felt twin droplets leak out. There was nothing to be done for it now though. Jonathan relinquished Dracula’s throat, as much as he hated to, and instead gripped the back of his neck to hold him tight against his desperate, sinful kiss.
Dracula hummed with intrigue. He softened the strokes to Jonathan’s cock, as if rewarding him, and the wretched flesh betrayed its master by swelling quickly to fullness. As their kiss ran its course he leaned back only slightly to regard his guest, eyes flashing in the dark. “You seek more conventional pleasures tonight, I take it?”
He let go and moved as if to join Jonathan on the lounge; at this Jonathan pulled himself up, tugged Dracula to him and threw his naked leg around the beast’s hips. May God forgive him someday this heresy. Dracula tensed beneath him, perhaps sensing mischief and unwilling to submit. But then Jonathan made his wager: He bent forward and thrust his jaws to Dracula’s throat.
Oh how grotesquely the creature writhed in his arms. His teeth were far too blunt to pierce the Count’s skin in a single bite, but he pantomimed the effort—Dracula arched into him, and his startled moan of honest pleasure almost made him ill. At last, real heat flared under his skin, and he feasted on the sick thrill that had found some chink in the armor to exploit.
“Yes,” Jonathon hissed against the dead skin. He nipped and almost growled at Dracula’s throat like a hungry animal. “Let me take pleasure from you.”
Dracula chuckled, and his voice was so low and sweet as to almost speak of honest endearment. He shifted within his lover on the lounge, until he could stretch out on his back with his head pillowed against the arm, much as Jonanthan had been when he’d found him. There he relaxed, as much as he ever did, allowing Jonathan to play-suckle at him with profound amusement and even, it seemed, earnest arousal. He even tossed his head to one side like a swooning maiden, clutched the hairs at the back of Jonathan’s neck and encouraged the boyishly clumsy grinding of their hips. He was, for what seemed to be the first time, sincerely enraptured of his favorite prisoner.
So much so that Jonathan almost lost his nerve. There was something intoxicatingly primal in being able to sink his teeth into his hated enemy, however ineffectively. He grunted and humped and chewed like a beast. He felt alive, and at last, almost powerful. But when Dracula pushed up against him, the press of the cold, dead cock against his own, flushed and dripping, turned his stomach. This was not a man. This was the Enemy.
Jonathan gave one last, wrenching bite—Dracula quaked happily beneath him—and sat up. Fearful that the Count would see the resolve in his face, he smeared his palm against his throat to wet it with blood, and then pushed it invitingly against the already red lips. Dracula’s half-open eyes glinted with a predator’s malice and he wasted no time in finally sinking his teeth in fully: he clamped his jaws around the meat of Jonathann’s palm between forefinger and thumb. Jonathan grimaced, but he allowed it. He even took a moment to massage Dracula’s throat, digging into the marks he had left and encouraging him to swallow more down.
He had thought about doing this in the bed, but had ultimately decided against it for the same reasons it was the more obvious choice: so many places to hide a weapon beneath the pillow, the mattress, within the headboard. Dracula would have anticipated such a trap. It took greater effort and sacrificing the use of his hand for a time for Jonathan to work the short, sharpened stake out from between the lounge cushions and its back. As the fingers of one hand went numb, the others took up their hope for salvation, and without any hesitation spared for wasted pity, he swung his arm down.
Dracula caught him by the wrist. His eyes pinched with wicked humor as he met Jonathan’s horrified glare. In movements too quick to parse, he forced Jonathan to sheath his weapon into the furniture—straight through its back with impossible force—and then swept over him. In moments, Dracula’s fangs were in his throat.
The stabbing pain was swallowed up almost immediately in a rush of grisly arousal. Jonathan barely managed a gasp as his back was shoved up against the lounge, Dracula looming into him, fierce and powerful and inescapable. The sensation of his blood sucked clear from his veins, into the sustenance of this demon, tangled his poor brain into knots of fear and euphoria. All he could do was grip the Count’s hunched shoulders, digging in desperately. Though he begged his limbs to throw his attacker off, all they could do was clutch them more tightly together; there was no resisting the hellish allure of his suckling mouth, the rough, rhythmic thrusting of his body. He felt small and frail, pouring so much of himself down Dracula’s gaping throat. All he could do was cling, and whimper, and pant—hips spasming to grind his still-flush cock against Dracula’s clothed, cadaver’s organ.
How pathetic and futile his attempts to kill the monster had been. As Dracula moaned against the wounds he’d wrought, Jonathan quaked all over, and a sick orgasm twisted out from his shameful depths—rapture as ruinous as it was blissful, pulsing into his tingling fingertips, his aching toes, his humiliating cry. He couldn’t remember then if righteous murder had ever been his intent after all.
Jonathan must have succumbed to a faint; he awoke tucked into bed, naked, but clean and bandaged. The loss of blood had weakened him terribly, and even sitting up was almost too much to ask of him. He felt utterly depleted, but not, as he thought he should, despairing.
His mouth began to water. He looked to his right, where upon the bedside table his oh so generous host had left him warm soup, soft fruits, and a glass of wine presumably toward his recuperation. Next to them like a garnish lay the sharpened stake.
Jonathan shook, and he wanted to dash the table to the floor in defiance. Instead he managed to draw the vessel toward him, and he drank.