His Favorite Things Who: John, Shelly What: It Was Supposed to be Dinner When: Night, Present Where: John's Home Warnings: Sexually Suggestive
It was just past 10 o’clock PM. Shelly was leaning over her bathroom counter, using the vanity-lit mirror to apply mascara with a light, upward flicking motion. Once done, she tilted her head to the side, blonde curls cascading over her shoulder as she took in the full picture. Sharp, winged eyeliner. A deep red lipstick with a purple undertone that set off the paleness of her skin. She turned and exited the tiny bathroom in a maroon-colored long-line bra and matching underwear, padding down the carpeted hallway to her bedroom.
She had three dresses hanging on velvet curtains, resting on the hook on her closet door. The blonde stood with hand on one hip, deciding. Shelly ran her black-painted fingernails over the first dress, the least expensive of the lot. It had been rescued from a consignment shop in Henderson. Where other people were looking for modern offerings from a department store, her trained eye was searching for something out of a different time.
The dress was pulled over her head, carefully, a black mini with lacy bell sleeves and a v-neck line. Once dressed, Shelly grabbed her coat and purse, making sure her cell phone, wallet, and keys were accounted for. A deep breath, and she was out the door, down the concrete steps, avoiding the crack that was a death trap for high heels. The last thing she needed was a snapped ankle. She slid behind the wheel of her car, let it heat up, and was on her way to John’s building.
In some ways, John’s condo on the first floor of a multi-unit building felt like a living space with no clue what year it was. Though he’d painted the walls a modern shade of gray and it had sleek, rarely used appliances, most of the furniture was made of solid wood: heavy stuff that movers hated. Within a half dozen bookshelves, a variety of novels and vinyl records nested, lit by lamplight. There were paintings on the walls and some stacked in corners, awaiting a time when he might actually display them. He had become an artificial plant person, finally admitting to himself in the last decade that just because he was dead didn’t mean his home had to look the part. In the corner, John’s desk was a wreck. His laptop was closed, but the surface was overrun with papers, some in stacks, some unsorted in bins.
As Shelly approached the private outdoor entrance, he was on his back on the couch, one hand holding open a book, the other propping up his head. A turntable spun by the entrance to his bedroom, teasing the room with the faint notes of blues guitar. There was alcohol and food in the kitchen, and judging by the empty glass with the purple-red stain at the bottom, he’d already gotten into something while he was waiting. A small box sat next to it.
Shelly pushed open the door, catching the sounds of twangy guitar, the faint scent of food, and the omnipresent smell of unfamiliarity that comes with visiting someone else’s living quarters. She shut the door behind her, engaging the lock out of courtesy, and slipped off her coat and purse. Stepping into the living area, the blonde spotted John lying on the couch and smiled. “I feel like this is exactly what I imagined it would be,” she commented, crossing the space and hovering above him, peering at the title on his book.
“Good evening, professor,” she added, a wink in her voice.
“Ms. Harmon.” John laid the book across his chest. He breathed deep and took in the sight of her. “You look phenomenal.” It was as if the door to his home had been opened by an actress from the 1950s. It had to be an actress, because he couldn’t remember ordinary women being so beautiful. He reached out and touched the hem of her dress. Of all the things he liked about Shelly, the fact that she was as fascinated by detail as he was ranked high on his list. John was content to stay exactly in that spot, staring some more, but it would’ve been selfish and probably gotten him into trouble, so he tossed the book across the couch and got up.
“Wow. Just how high are those heels?” he asked, finding that she was a lot closer to his height than last time around.
“What, these?” She smiled redly, lifting one foot coquettishly backwards, looking down at the point of the stiletto. “I don’t have to wear them…” Shelly placed her hands on his solid shoulders for stability, and kicked each shoe off, one at a time. Head now level somewhere near the top of his shirt, the blond looked up at John through her lashes. “You look as handsome as ever,” she commented.
“Something smells good. Did you cook? Believe it or not, I can barely boil water.”
When she slipped out of her shoes, John thought, ‘I should have commented on the dress instead.’ It was fortunate he had a verbal filter. “I did,” he said, redirecting himself. “It’s strange, learning to cook when you’re never hungry for food, but it’s not bad. You hone in on the flavor because otherwise, what’s the point? Other than feeding women who can barely boil water.” He smiled and tipped up her chin, doing a deep study of her mouth, which he could never quite believe the shape of. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tempted to mess up someone’s lipstick. Which reminds me.” He scooped up the small box and offered it to her. “I was in an antique shop picking up a copy of an Edith Wharton novel when I saw that and thought of you.” Underneath the lid, there was a vintage lipstick holder with mirror, the metal heavy but in immaculate condition, the mirror un-cracked. The person who sold it to him called it something of a miracle, given the tumultuous nature of a woman’s purse.
Shelly took the box with a wide smile. “You got me something?” There was an obvious note of excitement in her voice. She opened the package carefully, brown eyes widening when she saw the lipstick holder. “This is amazing. It’s so perfect. Thank you.” She held up the mirror, then looked up at him. The blonde tilted her head up and planted a kiss on his mouth, his lips cool against hers. One hand went back to his shoulder, the other holding her gift.
She was sorely tempted to deepen the kiss, but she wanted to wait. There was a part of her that enjoyed their back-and-forth, an almost old-fashioned kind of courtship. If one could count disposing of a dead body together as courtship. Shelly pulled back, her smile still lingering, and rubbed one thumb over his lower lip. “My color looks good on you.”
The fingertip on his lip was giving him an exercise in patience. Being near her meant walking a tightrope. It was good to let Shelly make the overtures, until it was clear she was comfortable with him being a vampire. On the other hand, he was not historically passive in this area of his life. If he left things open to interpretation, she might assume he wasn’t flush with mental imagery.
John swept the hair back from one of her ears. It piled up in his open palm. He kissed the side of her neck, which was warm, soft, and carried the quiet rush of her pulse. He’d never understand why vampires were in a hurry to kill or turn humans they liked and get rid of that sweet sound. Figuring that this was a fair trade-off, or safer at least, John let himself kiss her neck the way he wanted to kiss her mouth, which was to say he spent a long time on it, using his lips, tongue, and (he’d swear it was just one second) his teeth.
When he backed up, he said, “Thank God Freud never analyzed the things that vampires do with their mouths. You’re welcome to put lipstick on mine whenever you like.” Kitchen. To the kitchen, that would be wise. John picked up his wine glass. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Any thoughts of going slow and steady flew out of the window when she felt John’s mouth against her neck. Her eyes slipped closed, the hand on his shoulder sliding down his back. “Wait,” she said, putting down the box with the lipstick holder, then gently taking the wine glass from his hand and setting it down, too. Gently, she steered him toward the couch and into a sitting position before settling onto his lap, the hem of her dress bunching up over her thighs.
“I’m not thinking about food or wine right now,” Shelly admitted. She placed one hand under his chin, cupping his face and looking into his eyes. There was something different about John’s brand of handsome, something old-fashioned and wonderful that set off her imagination in ways other people didn’t.
“I know what you mean.” He let her look, like she did for him. John’s fingers grabbed onto the ripples of fabric on her thighs. “Do you know that feeling just before something happens?” As he talked, he was careful not to disturb her hand from its place on his chin. “It’s like the tension you feel when a violinist lifts a bow.” That was how it felt when Shelly was around: anticipatory, and whether or not it had become anything else, he had gotten pleasure out of walking around in that state.
“I used to think it was my favorite part, but now I’m not sure.” John maneuvered his hands up to her hips and nudged her closer. “I can think of ten things offhand that would be better.” He retraced his steps to her neck and kissed her earlobe. “Do you want me to tell you?”
She tilted her own head up, increasing the length of her neck as she ran her free hand through his dark curls. The space between them now was non-existent. “Well, now I have to know,” Shelly replied with a soft smile. The blonde was tempted to tease him, to move her hips just so, but the truth was she liked being on the receiving end just as much when it came to him. His mouth on her skin was driving her crazy.
“Alright.” He was hoping Shelly would agree. The fingers in his hair were adding some color to his thoughts. “The sound of your breath catching in your throat. The way your tongue is going to taste.” John’s mouth tugged on her earlobe. He reached up to smooth a piece of pale yellow hair back. “The sight of the zipper on your dress coming down. How it would be to lie next to you, skin to skin. The smell of your skin, right here.” He ran his hand up her leg and pressed his thumb into her inner thigh. “Spending hours figuring out what makes you call my name.” John pulled back to ask her a question in all innocence. “Should I keep going? I have four more.”
“Keep going.” She placed her hand on his, the one on her thigh, and guided it higher. “I want to hear all of them so I can choose which one is my favorite. Right now, I’m leaning toward calling your name.” With her other hand, she toyed with the buttons on his shirt, shifting her weight against him as she felt his teeth against her earlobe, a trail of goosebumps appearing over her skin. “And then you’ll show me your bedroom.”
If she kept squirming like that, he’d never get through the list. John smiled. “The way I can see your pulse changing in your neck, even now. That’s seven.” He moved his hand under the skirt of her dress and two fingers got wrapped up in the maroon fabric of her underwear. They didn’t touch her but they gently pulled and twisted. “The curve of your spine when you're straining to get closer. That’s eight. The moment when you say yes, and I would draw that one out because I’m a masochist,” he said, laughing at himself, “and how impossible it would be to take my eyes off you.” John kissed the underside of Shelly’s jaw. “I’d probably forget who I was and start breathing again.”
She grabbed his hands and lowered them, her smile turning slightly wicked as she slowly climbed off of him. Shelly stood, hovering over him, studying him appraisingly as her fingers went to the zipper of her dress. Her lipstick was still on his mouth. “Do you want to do it, or watch me?” she asked, her voice playful and teasing. The blonde bent one knee and placed it next to his thigh, exposing more skin as the hem of her dress lifted. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m waiting to see when you’ll get tired and just sweep me up.”
“I was trying to be chivalrous,” he told her, looking down at her knee with a quirk of his eyebrows. He wrapped his fingers around the soft back of it and followed it all the way up to the top of her leg. If he stretched his fingers just so, he could reach into the space between her thighs, which he was not shy about doing. John waited, then looked up at her face. “Stay there.” With care, he extracted himself from the couch cushion and took his place behind her. A moment of quiet passed. Then John’s fingers took over at the zipper and brought it down while he listened and watched the slider parting the teeth. He put his hands on her shoulders and eased the bell sleeves down her arms, then nudged the dress past her hips.
Still behind her, John guided her face to his. He put his arms around her. “Did you want me to sweep you up, Shelly?” The inches between them shrunk down to nothing. His eyelids were heavier but his voice was still amused, hands confident and all over her now, going slow but firm, from her clavicle down to her hips. “I can do that. Pick you up. Put you on the bed. Take the rest of your clothes off with my teeth.” He caught her mouth in a kiss. It was the first time he’d initiated one, which meant the dynamic was shifting. John knew she trusted him.
Shelly returned the kiss with aplomb, sinking into him as her tongue met his, his touch sending sparks of sensation throughout her body. She turned to face him fully, and after pulling away from his mouth, she looked directly into his hazel eyes and said, “Do you want to use your teeth?” Maybe it was dangerous asking such a question, but she liked the way she felt with him, trusting him but also excited, like walking a high wire act. Her hands went to the waistband of his pants, her painted fingernails dipping beneath it. “And yes, I want you to.”
Did he want to use his teeth? John raised his eyebrows, as if figuring out a diplomatic answer to that question was a lot, and maybe it was when he looked down at what Shelly was wearing. Interesting color. John rested his forehead on hers, messy black curls intermingling with sleek blonde hair. “My teeth, and a few other things.” The tip of his tongue touched her lip, which he took in between his.
Her fingernails on his abdomen were tying him into knots, so he wasn’t surprised when he felt his teeth straining, and that was only half the problem. He wondered if Shelly had any clue what he was dealing with. John unbuttoned his shirt, keeping his eyes on hers. When it was off, he shed the rest of his clothes.
He picked her up and walked through the open door to his bedroom. “Tell me one thing.” He ran his mouth alongside her neck and wound his fingers into her hair. “When you thought about being with me, what was it like, Shelly? Was it slow and gentle, or something else?”
Her eyes fell over his body, lingering, not disappointed at all with what she could see. Shelly smiled slowly. “It depends on the day,” she told him, her arms hooked around him. “Sometimes, it starts slow…” The blonde trailed off, her hands falling down his back. “But there wasn’t this much talking.” Her mouth met his in another kiss, hungrily.
She wondered if she was succeeding in playing it cool, because she definitely didn’t feel it. Shelly realized he could probably tell, based on the way her heart raced with anticipation.
Less talking. That he could do. In the meantime, he had other uses for his mouth. He kissed her back deeper, and the hand in her hair pulled at it hard enough to make her scalp tingle. The warmth of her mouth made him want to wrap himself up in all of her. Shelly was right; he could hear her heart and any hitch in her respiration. It was part of what he loved about being a vampire: when he wanted, he could be a student of a human’s responses to fear, pain, love, or lust.
John sat her on the edge of the mattress. He went to his knees on the floor and tugged Shelly closer, all while looking at her beautiful, brown eyes. There was a change in the pressure from his hands. It was stronger and insistent. When he raised her knee over his shoulder, he ran his nose and mouth along the inside of her leg. The cool rush of air told her he was breathing her in.
One at a time, he was going to mark things off his list.