I react each and every time he touches me or I him. When my mouth closes on his I can taste the possibility of his death. Beneath each thought lies this silent and voracious yearning. When he presses close to me in the fever of passion, I can hear his heart. I can feel the beating of his veins against my skin and my tongue. I can smell the vigor of his energy upon him.
Yes, I want it. I can clearly picture what it would be like to sink my teeth without regret and pull on that precious thread of life. You know as well as I that I that the more absolute our connection to a being, the more exquisite the pleasure. The measured mouthfuls I now take, small challenges to temptation, would pale before this ultimate feast. I would know him utterly. I would be able to drink up his very being to the last tremulous drop. I would take him, body and soul and consume all that rich essence into me, drop by drop; the fantasy of every lusty lover, more or less.
And there is something wicked in me which feels this longing when he cries out, when I hurt him just a little too much - accident or not. Then I burn for more.