There is a quiet part of Adam which says he should be above this. A part whose only voice lies in string and sound, for he will never voice its thoughts aloud; a part which has survived through all these centuries, through the trials and uprootings, through the blood and the bleedings, through the Turning; a part unaffected by longevity or will or the innovations of the apothecaries or by anything at all under the moon.
At times it is a numbing, funereal drone that darkens his thoughts. At other times it rings out an ugly, discordant note of self-hatred. But at times like these, it is an insistent hum which says he should be able to regulate himself; that he is ancient, and vampire, and ...view middle of the document...
"One of the zombies' better inventions," he says, not for the first time. On occasion he has even meant it.
Eve just hums in affection, stroking up his shoulders and arms, barely grazing the leather on his wrists before twining fingers with his in a long, sensual stretch. "Indeed," she finally breathes. In the shadow on the wall, he sees her head thrown back. "1938. London..." Her lips brush his ear, placing a kiss gently just below. He feels her smile against him; feels her warm resonance just above him and sighs in pleasure. "We've made some better memories with these, since then. Haven't we?"
His reply is a wordless sound.
"Adam. Close your eyes, love."
Her weight presses him into the mattress, and his mind falls silent in a way no drug could manage.
She hums, again, against his neck. "Are you comfortable, dear?"
He nods, and she strokes his hair with those glorious hands. "Stay just like that, then. Be good for me, darling."
It would never occur to him not to.
In absence of a pounding heart—in absence of the fire, the passion of living blood—all is still, and Adam knows nothing except Eve and her love for him. She maps him, lips cool on his skin, kissing down his neck and nape as her hands trail lazy paths along his spine. Her shirt drags a slow, sibilant note against the sheets; her breathing is a rhythmic undertone; the occasional pleased sound escapes her lips, pleasing him in turn, that she finds joy in him; and it all melds into the greater symphony of her presence, of her touch.
It's beautiful. His skin sings with the bliss of it. He would have her compose this way all night—all year, all century, all his life, for however many years or centuries that life may last. It is more skillful than any song he could dream to write.
"Eve," he whispers eventually, his mind in a fog.
Her weight settles heavy over top of him. "I'm here, Adam," she reassures. "Tell me what you need."
A brief, discordant note; her suggestion strikes him, and Adam aches.
Eve feels it. She squeezes his sides, firmly, and presses harder into him. Repeats: "Tell me what you need."
Adam makes a sound of wanting and Eve shifts to straddle him, hands settling on his shoulders as if he'd asked for it, fingertips still stroking in a constant affirmation of his vitality. She pins him without effort, and the discordance resolves. Then her nails dig in, dragging a sigh from him. "Yes. Please, Eve, more of that."
"Of the nails, darling?"
His only response is a happy exhalation.
"I see," she says, as if he'd spoken. She digs in again, then scratches long furrows down his back. He moans, melting further into the mattress at the exquisite sting; the blood in him is slow to rise to the surface, but rise it does, small droplets beading, filling the air with their heady scent. Above him, Eve's tender smile goes unappreciated.
"Do you want the switch, Adam?"
Desire sings in him, and he breathes deeply at the thought of such a pain. But he shakes his...