It is a narrow, but crowded street, littered with dark alleys and people scattered here and there, spilling out of and into the clubs that line the sidewalks. Music of every sort filters out of open and closed doors alike.

‘Let me whisper in your ear.’

I watch the internal battle with your choice rage in the small nuanced movements of your face. Your angel and devil have taken up the gauntlet and now fight for what you know and what you feel. Your ‘better’ judgment is set against me, your emotion tilts my way every time. You want to know what it is I will tell you. You want to feel my breath on the delicate shell of your ear. You want to listen to my voice as it echoes down your spine and eventually spills into your blood.

I hear the intake and exhale of your breath and I know that you’ve decided against your mind and taken up my dark offer. Even as you settle your palm into my own, I can almost taste your rapid heartbeat on my tongue, nearly feel the thickness of your blood, sticky and sweet, moistening my skin. I can smell the subtle changes in your body as the warm, dry heat of my hand closes around your cooler fingers. I am intoxicated by the jasmine I detect in your perfume. It surrounds us, a lingering note in the air, evanescent, evasive.

Finding those dark corners is never hard for us. This time is no different. Our faces and bodies fall into shadow. The only light that shines catches the edge of your shoes, a red so dark it borders on black. It is a punctuation to a greater sentence that remains unseen and as yet, unspoken. I catch your gaze and wonder at the trick of the light that allows me to detect gold in your eyes and the movement they make to adjust. Your pupils push wider until nearly all the color has disappeared, framed by a band of gold which catches my attention.

My palm find your cheek and you turn your face into it, nuzzling it the way that you do. I can feel your breath exhale against it and linger, moist and cool until my skin absorbs it. I know I’ll remember the feel of your lips after this is done. You make this soft noise of contentment which catches in your throat the moment I close my fingers around your face and hold it still. You don’t move, but the change in your breathing screams that I have the entirety of your attention.

I lower my face to yours, but my eyes look off of the side where a couple lingers too close to our space, our private arena. I wait until they leave and lean closer. My fingers hold you still, and you haven’t moved despite, I suspect, an increasing desire too do so. Your eyelashes beat against my palm. I inhale deeply by your ear and let out the breath in a low, rumbling noise that vibrates the air. My tongue slowly traces along the curve of your earlobe and I feel the shudder of your body. Such a simple gesture and yet I see the goosebumps erupt that over your skin.

Silence is broken only by the whisper of clothing, of skin upon skin and breath, exhaled in shuddered sighs.

‘Are you listening, pet?’ My fingers release your face and I kiss you without allowing you a moment to adjust to the absence of my control. It is an almost violent meeting and I feel the sudden sharp pain of your nails in my shoulder. I break the kiss just as quickly and stare at you a long moment before my eyes narrow. I feel my shirt sticking to the wound you’ve just inflicted and my lip curls into a snear, even as I push the offending hand away and press it against the brick wall.

The movement is harder than I intend, but even as I hear the whimper of pain, acknowledge it, it excites me. I force your hand even more against the brick. Your other hand follows with a sharp, vicious jerk of mine. Small movements of my hand rock back and forth over yours and draw those sounds I desire from you. When that broken cry of rage breaks, despite your unwillingness to share it, I hiss in response, ‘Yesss…’

It is a fever that plays out between us. My shoulder burns where you marked it, and as I drag the backs of your hands across the brick, I pay it back two-fold. Your eyes are glossy, but stubbornness tattoos your jaw. You are angry you allowed me that satisfaction of hearing your cry. You are angry that you were lured by seduction, by your own curiosity, your own inability to tell me no. You are angry that even as the backs of your hands bruise and bleed, you want more. I feel the jerk on my hold and tighten my grip in response. You aren’t getting away.

I watch your tongue dart out to assuage the lingering ache upon your lip and a smile slowly forms on my mouth. Even I recognize it as mocking, challenging. My hands move yours above your head and a split second after I realize that one is loose, the strike has landed against my face and your palms have shoved me away. You are running deeper into the alley. Your shadow, long and dark, is the only thing of you that touches me as I move to follow your fleeing figure.

I watch you round a corner, and follow with unhurried steps. This wasn’t a random choice to bring you here, no last minute decision. You are trapped. Caged. I know it. You do not.

I can hear your footsteps as I move closer to the square where you stand. I wonder at the animal you’ll become when you recognize that you are at what mercy I have to offer you.

The utility light does nothing but create shadows in the small square. We are utterly out of view of anyone, our noise, your noise, rather, quite incapable of penetrating the vibrating walls of the clubs around us. It only serves to enhance the sound of your heels on the pavement and my heavier steps behind you.