Nocturne

NICOLE DIDN’T WAIT FOR HIM to comply. She pressed her lips against his, infusing her kiss with all the affection that welled within her. Michael’s resistance crumbled. He returned her kiss immediately and with rising passion as their bodies came together and clung.

A primitive force seemed to be controlling Nicole’s hands and body as she pressed herself to him, swallowing his kisses feverishly, each one only increasing her thirst for more. One hand roamed the hard muscles of his back, the other twisted into his silky brown hair. Soon, she felt desperate to heighten their contact. The clothing that separated them was an intrusion ; she yearned to feel his bare flesh against hers.

With trembling fingers Nicole grabbed hold of the hem of his T-shirt and began to tug it upward. Michael finished the job for her, whipping off his shirt in one swift movement. She caught her breath for one brief instant at the sight of the beautiful, naked rise of his chest, the tight-knit muscles of his bare, flat stomach, and his powerfully sculpted upper arms. Then she was in those arms again and he was kissing her, his hands slipping up beneath the thin fabric of her own T-shirt to rove up and down her back. He kissed her long and lovingly, with an intensity that left every muscle in her body limp with need.

Nicole took a step back, panting, and ripped her own shirt over her head. In seconds the rest of their clothing was gone and Michael was lowering her onto the soft cushion of the chaise lounge, his hard, naked body pressed tightly against hers, his mouth coming to hers in a hungry caress.

They didn’t speak, communicating only through touch, taste, sight, and sound. As they kissed, Michael’s hand glided up to cup her breast, shaping and kneading it, his thumb gently seeking and prodding her nipple. Desire spun through her like electricity. Nicole’s hand slipped down to knead the flesh below his navel, and then moved lower, her fingers seeking and massaging, giving him the pleasure that he was giving her. She both heard and felt his soft moan. Then his lips left hers and followed where his fingertips had been, taking her nipple deeply in his mouth and rolling it back and forth with his tongue. Nicole’s back arched in answer to the caress. Her blood seemed to be spinning through her veins, her pulse pounding in every pore of her body.

His mouth still at her breast, Michael’s hand traveled down her belly to the private sanctum between her inner thighs. With rising pleasure, Nicole received the deliberate attention of his fingertips, her own hands exploring the hard knit muscles of his back and buttocks. Now he was sliding down, and she gasped as his tongue replaced his fingers.

The magic he worked with that tongue sent her into a delirium, filling her with liquid, molten need, bringing her almost to ecstasy. Fiercely she grabbed his muscled biceps, urging him upward, silently letting him know that she wanted him, now. In a fraction of a heartbeat he was above her again, spreading her legs with his body, and inside her, filling her, moving above and within her.

Nicole felt the thud of his pulse against her breasts. Her head fell back, exposing her throat to his lips. He planted tiny, hot kisses there, moving down the length of her neck. Then he paused. Nicole heard his ragged breath against her ear and she briefly froze, pulse racing, holding her breath, wondering.

But his teeth didn’t touch her tender and pliant flesh. Instead, his mouth quickly returned to hers and he buried himself more deeply within her. Nicole’s body answered, quivering with anticipation and then shuddering deeply each time he slowly thrust himself into her. Together, they moved to an unearthly rhythm. Deep down inside her womanhood she ached and throbbed. Her mind emptied. She could think of nothing but the need to give herself to the rising fire within her. Just as she heard his passionate exclamation, she gasped with pleasure, her body exploding into a million fragments of white hot sensation.

AFTERWARD, THEY LAY CLASPED in each other’s arms on the chaise lounge, faces almost touching, the moist air of the conservatory enfolding them in its luxurious warmth. Michael’s blue eyes as they held hers were luminous, regarding her with wonder as he gently traced the length of her arm with his fingertips. At last, he said softly:

“Nicole, you are so lovely in every way, you couldn’t be more perfect if I had conjured you out of thin air.” Michael caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I can’t stop touching you. I’ve lived so long in my imagination, I still can’t believe that . . .”

“It’s never been like that for me,” Nicole whispered with similar wonder. “And,” she added with a soft, slow smile, “may I point out that you didn’t bite me.”

Michael moved on top of her, his eyes smoldering as he wrapped her more tightly in his embrace. “Shall we try it again and find out . . . at a more leisurely pace this time?”

LATER, AFTER THEY DRESSED, Michael brought her home from the conservatory in the same manner in which they had arrived. He felt Nicole shiver in his embrace at the first blast of frigid air outside, but soon remedied that by delivering her speedily to the toasty, dry warmth of the house.

Setting her down in the mud room, Michael shut the door with his foot, his arms still around her, gazing enraptured into those bright green eyes, not wanting to let her go.

He was still reeling with elation from the beautiful, incredible thing that had just happened between them. He’d told Nicole everything and she hadn’t been afraid; she’d still wanted him. Centuries ago, when he’d come to terms with his nature and made his choice of how to live, he’d given up the hope of ever being able to love a woman again. Nicole had helped him see that it was still possible. He’d just made love to her twice, and he hadn’t harmed her. It was like a miracle.

Michael couldn’t stop smiling as they hung up their heavy winter garments, couldn’t take his eyes off her as they made their way upstairs. He could admit it now—if only to himself: Nicole was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a woman. He loved her, had loved her from the first moment he saw her, and every moment in her presence since had only reaffirmed it. Was it possible that his love for her was responsible for silencing the demon that was inside him? Would it remain silent a little while longer, so he could enjoy and love her while she was here?

He knew she would only stay two more days; he couldn’t expect more than that. He knew, too, that she was still holding something back from him. Something haunted her from her past, and he suspected that it had to do with her fear of blood. He hoped that eventually she would open up to him.

“You asked about this yesterday,” Michael said, opening the cabinet and taking out the box she’d admired—the one inlaid with the red rose design and a scroll of music. “I thought you might like to look at it.”

Michael wound up the music box and handed it to her. Reverently, Nicole studied the detailed, colorful mosaic of the lid, running her fingers over its lacquered surface.

They retreated to his study, where he built a fire in the hearth. Retrieving a CD from his collection, he popped it into his stereo and set it to play the appropriate track. It was a tender, old-fashioned Scottish song, sung by a gorgeous tenor to the accompaniment of a full orchestra.

O, my Love’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my Love’s like the melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas run dry.

The song went on with simple but heartrending elegance, describing a love that was fresh and everlasting. As Nicole listened, Michael strode up and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his lips against the radiant abundance of her long, flaming hair. Her waist was so small; she felt so delicate, feminine, and breakable beneath his hands. Nicole leaned her head back against his shoulder and sighed as the music and lyrics of the full-bodied, melodious tune filled the room. He’d heard it at least a thousand times, yet it was so beautiful and heartfelt that it always gave him a rush of pleasure. Nicole seemed to share his reaction, for when the song ended, he saw tears brimming in her eyes.

“He did. Burns was so struck by the words to ‘Red, Red Rose’ when sung by a country girl that he wrote them down. Not being pleased with the air, he asked me to give it to his friend Pietro Urbani, a Scots singer, and see if he’d set the words to music in the style of a Scots tune, which Urbani did accordingly.”

Nicole spun slowly in Michael’s embrace until she faced him, her arms encircling his waist. “Burns asked you to... ?” She stared at him. “Are you saying you actually knew the poet Robert Burns?”

“He was about my age—or the age I appeared to be, anyway. He was a good-looking chap, very spirited and intelligent. His eyes literally glowed when he spoke with feeling or interest. He talked about his love of poetry and about his muse. Sadly, he became ill and died soon after he wrote that poem. But it was Burns who first inspired my interest in writing.”

Her smile as she gazed at him was such a mix of wonder, affection, and admiration that Michael’s heart turned over. He kissed her, then spread small, slow kisses across her cheeks and nose. As he tenderly brushed back the hair from Nicole’s forehead, his eyes fell upon the butterfly bandage concealing the cut on her temple, which still looked angry. “Does that hurt?”

He was surprised she knew that, but then remembered her interest in medicine, and that she’d once considered becoming a doctor. “That’s why cuts in the mouth heal so much faster than other injuries.”

Nicole laughed again. “You are just one surprise after another. I never know what to expect next from you.” She beamed at him and said with a melodramatic flair, “Okay. Yes! Please, doctor! Heal me.”

He lowered his head and lightly pressed his tongue to the wound. As he lapped against the severed ridges of her tender flesh, he felt her tense. Then a quiver ran through her body, she gasped, and her hands slid up to grip his shoulders, as if to steady herself. He continued to lick her wound with infinite slowness, feeling the subtle but steady changes as they occurred beneath his tongue.

A thought seemed to occur to her. “If your saliva has such unique properties, is that why, whenever we kiss . . . and a little while ago, when we . . . when you . . . you know . . . Is that why it felt so . . . so amazingly, incredibly, indescribable?”

It was very late now, and Nicole suddenly looked so sleepy that Michael led her to the couch in front of the fireplace, where they stretched out, face-to-face in each other’s arms. His fingers searched tenderly in her heavy curtain of hair, finding and exposing her ear. In a low tone that did nothing to disguise his adoration, he quoted:

Pulling aside her T-shirt, he delicately brushed his lips across the sensual slope of her upper shoulder. “‘As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I . . .’”

Michael bent his head to hers and gave her a languorous kiss. “‘And I will love thee still, my dear,’” he whispered, “‘till all the seas run dry.’”

Joy surged through him. For so long—an eternity—he had been with a woman only in his mind and dreams. But she was here and real. With hands and lips, he worshiped her. They shed their clothes with unhurried grace, pausing to gaze at each other, admire, and smile. She was perfect in her nudity. Perfect. Beautiful. Physical desire, so long denied, rioted in his veins.

Murmuring his praise, he turned her to him and slid down on the couch, past her hips, letting his hands glide over every curve of her slender body. The provocative form of her inner thighs was captivating. Tenderly, he nestled his face into the warm cloud of that feminine softness. He heard her gasp and call his name. The texture and taste of her was intoxicating. He took his time, felt her legs tremble violently beneath him as her fingers clenched his arms.

He moved up to take her, but Nicole suddenly spun in his embrace and rolled to a sitting position, trapping his legs beneath her on the couch. He tried to drag her to him but she stopped him, placing a silent fingertip to his lips. Settling atop him like a sylph or siren, she slowly planted kisses over the curves of his chest, then worked her way down his side, softly touching her lips and tongue in between each rib as she traveled ever lower, past his hips now. He felt the contact burn in hot channels throughout his body. Her breasts, as she moved, were an unconscious caress and he felt himself tighten more urgently beneath her, his breath sharpening in little staccato gasps as she embraced him with her mouth.

Michael reached down to thread his hands into her luxurious hair, urgently raising her head back up to his. “My love,” he whispered thickly, “I don’t know how much more of that I can take.”

Nicole beamed down at him radiantly as his fingers fanned over her breasts in deepening strokes, his thumbs languorously stroking her nipples in circles. He heard her breath quicken in her throat. His entire body felt hot, like molten putty.

Michael’s hands glided around to her willowy, arching back and pulled her close, until the sweeping, moist heat of her pressed tightly against him. Their mouths searched for and found each other; then he planted fervent kisses across her cheek to her neck. The flaming passion within his body only heightened his awareness of the throbbing pulse in the throat beneath his lips. Oh, how he wanted her. He wanted all of her.

He could hear Nicole’s red blood pulsating through her veins. Its warm, delectable scent assailed his nostrils, and with it came the familiar, threatening heat behind his eyes and the ache in his jaw. He longed to try that blood, to test its flavor. He yearned to suck the essence from her body and experience the ecstasy that always accompanied it. Just a taste, he thought; just a taste.

But no; no. Michael briefly closed his eyes and sternly, deliberately forced the thoughts away. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Loving her this way was all that was permitted; and it was enough.

With deliberate slowness he guided her hips to join their bodies, easing himself into her melting warmth. Moving within her, gazing once more into the vivid greenness of her eyes, he concentrated on every vibrant sensation of pleasure building inside him. This was not just making love, he told himself; it was an act of love, a physical expression of all that was in his heart, something he had never in his entire existence experienced before tonight.

As she cried out in ecstasy and a bright flare of sensation engulfed him, the miracle of it rang through him as if it were the brilliant, climactic resolution of a symphony.