Press Your Back Against the Glass

Elias didn't breathe; he hunted. The storage room behind Gallery 14 was a tomb of wooden crates and bubble wrap, smelling of dust and the sharp, chemical bite of fresh oil paint. It was the only place in the building without a camera, a blind spot in the security grid he’d memorized weeks ago. He had Sloane shoved against a stack of canvases—a series of mediocre landscapes that were currently being sacrificed to the friction of her hips. Her hands were locked in his hair, pulling with a strength that would have torn a human’s scalp. But he wasn't human, and neither was she. The heat coming off her skin was a physical weight, a fever that would have registered a hundred and five on a thermometer. Beneath the silk of her emerald gown, her muscles were roping, shifting with a terrifying, rhythmic grace. He felt her teeth graze the cord of his neck, not a kiss but a threat. A promise of the carnage they were both suppressing. 'You’re late,' she hissed into his ear, her voice a low-frequency vibration that rattled his ribs. 'I almost killed the caterer out of boredom.' 'The 405 was a parking lot,' Elias growled, his voice dropping into that gutteral register he usually kept for the kill. He hiked her skirt up, the expensive fabric bunching in his fists like discarded script pages. 'And I had to wait for the perimeter to clear. Your people are twitchy tonight, Sloane.' 'They know something is in the room,' she panted, her eyes flashing a predatory gold in the dim light. 'They just don't know it’s you.' *** 7:02 PM Sloane: You’re late. The champagne is warm and the donor from the Getty is looking at me like I’m an appetizer. 7:04 PM Elias: I’m three minutes away. Tell the donor to keep his hands in his pockets if he wants to keep the fingers. 7:05 PM Sloane: Is that a threat, Elias? Or are you just marking territory you haven't even touched yet? 7:06 PM Elias: Look at the door. *** (Internal Monologue: Elias) Cut to: The Lobby. Wide shot. The lighting is intentionally dim, that flattering amber wash they use to make old money look younger. I see her. She’s the focal point, the golden hour in a room full of fluorescent nobodies. She’s wearing a green that shouldn’t exist in nature, a color that screams 'poison' or 'paradise' depending on how hungry you are. She looks like she was sculpted from marble and then set on fire. I can hear her heartbeat from thirty feet away. It’s too fast. Too heavy. It sounds like a war drum muffled by velvet. The humans around her are buzzing like gnats, oblivious to the fact that they’re standing next to a centrifuge of pure, unadulterated violence. She sees me. Her pupils dilate until the gold is just a thin, vibrating rim. That’s the beat. That’s the inciting incident. *** 7:12 PM Sloane: You look like you’re planning a heist. Or a murder. 7:13 PM Elias: In this suit? This is a 'legitimate businessman' look. Besides, I only kill things I intend to eat. 7:15 PM Sloane: Is that what I am? Dinner? 7:16 PM Elias: I think we both know who has the higher calorie count. Stop looking at the Hockney. It’s a fake. 7:17 PM Sloane: I know it’s a fake. I put it there. The real one is in the back. Third crate from the left. 7:18 PM Elias: Is that an invitation to a crime scene or a bedroom? 7:19 PM Sloane: Why choose? *** (Internal Monologue: Sloane) He walks like he’s trying to convince the floor not to break. It’s a performance. I watch the way the fabric of his jacket strains across his shoulders—broad, literal slabs of muscle that don’t belong on a man who spends his time in galleries. He smells like cedar smoke and something ancient, something that lived in the dark before there were cities. My skin starts to prickle, the fine hairs on my arms standing up. It’s the Change, lurking just under the surface, responding to him. We are two apex predators in a room full of sheep, and the only thing stopping me from tearing his throat out is the desperate, aching need to feel him inside me. It’s a thin line. A razor’s edge. Every time he looks at me, it feels like a heavy-handed edit, cutting out all the bullshit, leaving only the raw, visceral core of the scene. *** 7:30 PM Elias: Your husband is looking this way. 7:31 PM Sloane: He’s not my husband. He’s a business partner. And he’s human. He doesn't see anything unless it has a price tag on it. 7:32 PM Elias: I have a price tag. It’s just higher than he can afford. 7:34 PM Sloane: The staff entrance is behind the bar. Keycode is 0412. Don’t let the sensors catch your heat signature. Dial it down, Elias. You’re radiating like a furnace. 7:35 PM Elias: I’m not the one whose eyes are turning yellow, Sloane. See you in five. *** Back in the storage room, the 'five minutes' had long since dissolved into a frantic, bruising reality. Elias had his face buried in the crook of her neck, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse point there. He tasted salt and something metallic, the pheromones of her Kind. It was intoxicating, a drug that bypassed his brain and went straight to his blood. 'Elias,' she choked out, her head thumping back against the crate behind her. The wood splintered slightly under the force. She didn't care. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his glutes, pulling him flush against her. He was hard—unbearably, inhumanly hard. His cock was a heavy weight against her lower belly, separated only by the thin barrier of his slacks and her lace. He didn't bother with finesse. He reached down, his fingers finding the edge of her panties and simply snapping the silk. The sound was a sharp, final gunshot in the quiet room. 'Finally,' she whispered, a jagged sound that was half-growl. He fumbled with his belt, his hands shaking. For all his composure, the proximity to her was an assault on his senses. He freed himself, his cock springing forward, thick and pulsing with a life of its own. He saw the way her eyes tracked it, the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips. She wasn't shy. Her Kind didn't do shy. He grabbed her thighs, his thumb pads pressing into the soft, pale skin of her inner legs, and spread her wide. She was already slick, a glistening, honeyed heat that smelled of musk and desire. He guided himself to her opening, the tip of him catching on the sensitive folds of her labia. She let out a sound then—a high, sharp keening that he smothered with his mouth. He drove in. It wasn't a smooth entry. It was a collision. Her body was tight, a glove of hot, gripping muscle that seemed to recognize him, to welcome the invasion. Elias groaned into her mouth, his eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of the friction hit him. He felt like he was being swallowed by a volcano. 'More,' she demanded, her claws—real claws now, dark and curved—digging into the meat of his shoulders. 'Give me more, you bastard.' He obliged. He began to move, long, punishing strokes that shook the stack of crates. Each thrust was a heavy thud, the sound of their bodies meeting a wet, rhythmic slapping that echoed off the concrete walls. He wasn't holding back. He couldn't. The 'human' mask had slipped entirely, leaving behind the raw, hungry thing that lived in his marrow. Sloane was a storm beneath him. She met every thrust with a violent upward surge of her hips, her internal muscles clenching around him with terrifying strength. She was milking him, her pussy a warm, pulsing vice that threatened to end him before he was ready. He felt her clit rubbing against his pubic bone, a hard, electric spark that sent jolts of pure fire up his spine. 'You... feel... like... everything,' he panted, his sweat dripping onto her chest. It sizzled where it hit her skin, the temperature between them reaching a critical mass. 'Shut up,' she gasped, her face contorted in a mask of beautiful, agonized pleasure. 'Just... break me, Elias. Break the room.' He shifted his grip, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. The crates groaned behind her. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more desperate. He was a piston, a machine of flesh and bone, driving into her with a singular, primal purpose. He watched her breasts bounce with the impact, the dark peaks of her nipples rubbing against his shirt until the fabric was damp. He reached down with his free hand, his fingers finding her clitoris. It was swollen, a hard little knot of nerves that he flicked with his thumb. Sloane screamed—a sound that would have brought the security guards running if they weren't currently distracted by the 'incident' Elias’s contacts had staged in the parking lot. Her orgasm hit like a physical shockwave. Her entire body went rigid, her spine arching so hard her ribs threatened to pop. Her internal muscles didn't just clench; they convulsed, a series of rapid-fire ripples that felt like they were trying to wring the life out of him. 'Elias! ELIAS!' He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was right there with her. He buried his face in her hair, smelling the expensive shampoo and the raw scent of her climax. He felt the build-up in his gut, a heavy, molten pressure that finally snapped. He let out a roar—a sound no man could ever make—as he emptied himself into her. It felt like a flood, a hot, endless stream of seed that filled her to the brim and spilled over, running down her thighs in thick, white streaks. He kept thrusting even as he came, his body twitching with the force of it, until his legs gave out and he was forced to lean his entire weight against her. They stayed like that for a long time, two monsters in the dark, their breath coming in ragged, synchronized gasps. *** 8:12 PM Elias: You’re bleeding. My shoulder. 8:13 PM Sloane: It’ll heal. You’re lucky I didn't take a piece of you with me. 8:14 PM Elias: You did. I’m pretty sure my heart is still in that crate. 8:15 PM Sloane: Fix your tie. You look like you just survived a car wreck. 8:16 PM Elias: I did. A very expensive, very beautiful car wreck. 8:17 PM Sloane: Get out the back way. Same code. I’ll see you at the auction on Tuesday. 8:18 PM Elias: Tuesday? That’s four days. 8:19 PM Sloane: I need that long to get the smell of you out of my skin. Go. Before I decide to finish what we started. *** (Internal Monologue: Elias) Fade to black. That’s the end of the scene. I walk out into the cool evening air of West Hollywood, the valet handing me the keys to a car I don't really care about. My skin is still buzzing, the phantom sensation of her grip still lingering on my hips. I look at my reflection in the window of a boutique. My eyes are back to normal—mostly. Just a hint of that predatory amber around the edges. I think about the Hockney in the back. I should have taken it. It was right there. But as I pull onto Santa Monica Boulevard, I realize I didn't come for the art. I came for the artist. And the next time we meet, the script is going to be a lot more complicated. I smile, a flash of teeth that are just a little too sharp. Roll credits.

Press Your Back Against the Glass

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