He knew the easing of the tension between LaCroix and himself was the major reason behind his good mood. He wasn't running anymore, always looking over his shoulder, always on guard. True, they still didn't see eye-to-eye on things; Nick doubted they ever would. But over the last year or two they'd come closer to an understanding of each other. His master still scoffed at the notion of a cure, but he no longer actively interfered in Nick's search. For Nick's part--well, for one, he no longer cringed when he thought of LaCroix as his master.

He'd stopped Natalie's treatments, too. Almost immediately he'd felt better, returning to a level of physical and mental vitality that he hadn't had in years. His main diet was still beef blood, but every now and then he indulged in a taste of the real thing.

Like tonight, he decided. He'd swing over to the Raven, have a glass or two, and just maybe have a conversation with LaCroix that didn't involve barbed words and resentful accusations.

The fill-in bartender, Jack, was on tonight. All lean, panther-like grace, he was friendly to most in the Community, but intimate with few. "You're looking especially good tonight, Nick," he purred. "What can I do for you?"

Nick grinned back at him. He knew Jack found him attractive and though he'd never succumbed to the other's charms he enjoyed the mild flirtation. He ordered a glass of one of the best blends, then asked "Is LaCroix around?"

Jack shook his head. He didn't think he was supposed to not tell Nick where Himself was tonight. Besides, it was their quarrel, not his. "Naw. He went to the theater with Ashley."

"Ashley? Who's he?"

"Haven't you run into him before? He's a youngling, just about 200, I think. Quite a beauty, too."

"Oh." Nick didn't know what to say, what to think. Of course LaCroix must have friends he socialized with, he always had before. It had just never occurred to him that here in Toronto LaCroix might have interests other than his errant child.

LaCroix stole a glance at the youth beside him. Ashley leaned forward a little in his seat, face rapt and glowing. "Have you never seen 'Hippolytus' before?" His companion shook his head, a heavy lock of pale hair, curved like a gull's wing, falling across his eyes. He pushed it back with a slender hand and smiled up at LaCroix. "Not like this, Lucien. Years ago I saw it, in a florid English translation with horribly overpainted scenery. He gestured toward the stage. A simple platform had been built out into the audience, its edge curving wavelike to represent the seashore, while three long tiers under the proscenium represented the steps of the palace. Next to the steps, but clearly separate, a narrow ramp curved up and back into the wings: the path up the mountain, where Hippolytus went to worship Artemis. "This is perfect; this and the new translation give it an honest power that it must have had when it was new." He smiled again. "Thank you for bringing me, Lucien."

"It's my pleasure. I enjoy it much more with your company."

Lucien! Nicholas had called him Lucien only in the throes of passion or the languor of afterglow. He turned his attention firmly back to the play. This evening was not going to be ruined by thoughts of Nicholas.

Afterward they walked, too exhilarated by the play and the fresh night air to drive. Ashley laughed and exchanged witticisms with the street performers, smiled at the youths wandering from club to club. He'd had a crush on LaCroix since he'd first come to Toronto and heard that voice on the radio, had hung around the Raven trying to attract his attention. He felt proud now to be seen with him. Even though no one they passed on the street knew what the man beside him was, the elegant command of his bearing marked him out as Someone. Ashley glanced at LaCroix under his lashes, half-hoping, half-dreading that the ancient could sense his desire for him. He shivered a little, thinking of those hands on him. There was a little dark alley up ahead. Perfect.

"LaCroix . . ." "Yes, Ashley?" "Catch me--if you can!" and he was off, moving too fast for the mortals to see him, but not fast enough. LaCroix bore down on him easily, then played with him, letting him gain a good lead--until he ran smack into the old one's chest. He collapsed laughing against LaCroix, who instinctively put his arms around the youth. He leaned into the circle of those arms, tilted his head up, and slid an arm around LaCroix's neck. "I'll be your Ganymede, Lucien," he murmured, "if you'll be the eagle. Carry me off."

They rose swiftly into the sky.

Strong hands slid his jacket off his shoulders, folded it casually, and tossed it on a nearby chair. Deft fingers undid the buttons on his shirt, slid the tails out of his trousers, and sent it after the jacket. He swayed slightly, dropping his eyes to the floor to let LaCroix look at him. "Lovely," purred the older man. "You are a Ganymede, my dear." He traced the lines Ashley's chest, barely swelling into manhood. The youth was grace embodied, delicate ribs arching over a softly concave stomach. He held the narrow waist lightly and brushed his lips over Ashley's brow. Ashley shivered and raised his face for a kiss. LaCroix brushed his mouth over the rose-petal lips, teasing them apart. Gently, he traced the tip of his tongue just inside the rim of Ashley's lower lip. The boy sobbed with desire, and wrapped his arms around LaCroix's neck.

LaCroix took his mouth, as centuries ago he had taken cities: steadily and thoroughly, giving just enough so that he could take more. He slipped his fingers under the waistband of Ashley's trousers, undid just the top button, then slid his hands deeper, stroking and kneading the perfect buttocks. The willing one in his arms moaned, stirring memories deep in LaCroix of fiercer, more desperate moans. For a moment he felt a strong man struggling in his arms, not this pliant youth. Nicholas, he thought, then pushed it firmly away.

This one was here now. This one wanted to lay with him, and was not ashamed of it. This one offered himself willing, wanting to be taken, wanting LaCroix to take him. He tore Ashley's trousers off him, picked him up easily in one arm and disposed of his shoes and socks.

The covers were pulled back, the lovely youth laid on the bed. LaCroix stood over him, feeding on him with his eyes, and doe-dark eyes gazed up at him. Willing. Willing to submit, to be taken, to be used. He stripped, relishing in the display of his powerful body.

Nick felt ashamed of himself, but he made the phone calls anyway. By midnight he had the answers he wanted.

Ashley Benton was a product of the Romantic movement, that change in thought brought on by the Industrial and French revolutions, that said reason was a poor relative to experience. Goethe, Byron, and others had extolled the pursuit of passions, and Ashley Benton had devoured their writings and believed them. At the age of sixteen he had run away with his tutor to Constantinople--but this was not enough. He had abandoned the man to his disgrace, falling under the influence of a man rumoured to be the incarnation of The Old Man of the Mountains, the charismatic founder of the cult of the Assassins. No one had heard from him again--no one mortal, that is.

Nick shook his head. What was he doing, spying on LaCroix? Things weren't like that, anymore. So what if he'd gone to the theater with a friend? So what if that friend was lovely and feckless and . . .

He pushed himself up off the couch, turned the stereo on loud, and placed a fresh canvas on the easel. So what if they're in bed together, he thought grimly. It's none of your business anymore--isn't that the way you wanted it? Get it out of your system, Nick.

LaCroix had taken his time with the sweet body, its delicate bones and fine flesh. One hand caressing the boy's erection, he piled pillows into a mound with the other. Ashley's hands were running up and down his arms, grasping the solid biceps. LaCroix leaned over him. "Do you want me, Ashley?" he breathed. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, oh yes. . ."

LaCroix nodded toward the pillows. "Show me." The other rolled onto his knees, then draped himself gracefully and wantonly across the pillows. He spread his legs invitingly, positioning his ass at the perfect angle, then looked at LaCroix over his shoulder. "Take me."

LaCroix smiled, and raised an eyebrow. Ashley arched his back and ground suggestively against the pillows. "Please take me," he said. "You know I want it; I want it so bad."

Keeping the boy's eyes locked on his own the Roman reached for the vial of oil and tilted a tiny stream onto the cleft of the waiting ass. Ashley wriggled, trying to catch the dripping oil between his buttocks. Still holding his gaze, LaCroix worked the oil into the puckered bud of the boy's anus. He did not penetrate, he was waiting.

"Please!"

He slipped one finger inside, then another, working them slowly, maddeningly. Ashley broke the gaze, tossing his head back and begging: "Oh, God, fuck me! Fuck me! Tear me apart, Lucien!"

He slammed into him, deep and hard. No coaxing, no caution. Ashley wanted it as much as he did. It was sex, it was fucking--pure lust. A matter of flesh and sweat and spit. And at the end, blood. Not the golden transcendence of his child's blood, but a sharing, nevertheless.

He lay still for a long time afterwards, his eyes closed, fighting a battle that was none of Ashley's concern. He felt a soft kiss, a murmured "thank you," and then the youngling was gone.

He wept.

Nick lay on his back on the grassy hill. It was cold tonight, so cold even he felt it, a little. The grass was cold. The stars he'd always loved were cold.

Why? He asked himself. Why should you care? You've spent over a century running from him (and running back to him, an annoying corner of his heart reminded him). You've feared him (and feared for him). Hated him (loved him). Tried to kill him . . .

He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling the comforting solidity of the earth underneath him. He couldn't run any longer; what he'd been running from for so long had trapped him at last. And it wasn't LaCroix.

It was himself. It was his childhood self, weeping at the loss of his father. It was his self of his young manhood, too proud to weep, but brokenhearted at the loss of Gwynneth. It was his Crusader self, raging at the loss of his simple idealism in the blood and muck and venality of the siege of Damietta and its aftermath.

The Christians, when they'd captured Damietta, had thrown the wounded defenders over the wall into the ditch to suffer and die. They were heathens, enemies of God, the priests had said. When the Moslems had surrounded them and captured them, Nick had expected the same treatment. But the Sultan had sent food and doctors to them. He'd taken his time going home. He'd seen in the Levant that the Crusades were a political connivance and that between wars Christians lived and traded with Moslems as they would anyone else.

Then he'd met LaCroix. He saw nothing before him in his mortal life but more disappointments, and LaCroix had offered him a way out. It wasn't the power that tempted him or the immortality so much as the possibilities. The more his master had taught him, the more they shared and the closer they became, the more he feared him. To love LaCroix would be to open himself up to the greatest heartache he'd ever known. He couldn't face it, so he ran. He'd hoped LaCroix wouldn't care, that he'd just let him go. But LaCroix did care, and the more Nick ran the more LaCroix proved it.

LaCroix would forgive him anything--the rejection, even his attempt at murder--if Nicholas would come to his side once more.

To his side, and to his arms.

He opened his eyes and faced the stars once more. Now what, Nicholas, they asked.

I can't.

You must.

The painting on his easel was finished. He'd used acrylics so it would dry faster and he wouldn't have to sit and brood on it, but now he didn't know what to do with it. He was sitting on the couch, staring at it and downing a bottle, when the elevator door shooshed open. "Nat," he said quietly.

"Hey, Nick. Just thought I'd stop by--oh, is that a new one?" She shrugged off her coat and went to get a closer look. It was a small canvas. Evocative semi-abstract shapes tangled in a pale monochrome, transparently glazed with reds and golds. Nick said nothing. He hadn't wanted her to see it, but what did it matter? One more person to hurt before she hurt him. "Um, it's--rather erotic, isn't it?"

"I suppose." He took a long swallow of cow. "Nat, I'm sorry, but I really need to be alone right now."

He saw her hesitating, wanting to say something, anything. Finally she said, "It's all right. I understand." Leaning over him she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "I'll talk to you later."

He tossed and turned all day. Images tormented him: he and LaCroix embracing, reading to each other, playing music together, laughing. Kissing. Making love.

At dusk he finally rose from the tangled bed. He showered, washed his hair, and shaved. It was more than his usual ritual tonight. He was going to meet his lover--and then what? Was he ready to make love with LaCroix? Or, worse yet, what if LaCroix no longer wanted him, what if he was in love with Ashley Benton and Nick was truly free at last? He remembered a song from thirty years ago: "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

I haven't lost yet, he thought, and went to pick out some clothes. No jeans tonight. He pulled out a pair of deep blue-grey silk trousers that subtly accented his backside and a loose white silk shirt that made him look innocently erotic. Gold basketweave cufflinks dotted with rubies went next--he remembered LaCroix complimenting him on then long ago. Shoes, then cologne, then his black leather jacket. He took a long breath to steady himself, then went out the door.

Ashley came to the club early. LaCroix had hoped he wouldn't, had hoped unreasonably that he'd never see the boy again. It would be foolish and unnecessary to tell him that, but he had no intention of beginning an affair with him. Sex with him had been good, but it was just sex. Ah, well, there was no sense in putting it off. He took a bottle from the back bar and went over to Ashley's table.

"Good evening."

The boy smiled up at him. "Good evening, Lucien. I wasn't sure I should come here so soon after. I hope you're not angry."

"No, not at all. I enjoyed our encounter, but I must tell you--it was only an encounter, nothing more."

"I know that. It's Nicholas, isn't it?"

His hand stilled on the glass. "You know Nicholas?"

"No, we've never met. But I've heard of him. Of how he defied you, tried to escape you. Of how you've pursued him around the world and down through the years, refusing to give him up." He sighed and rested his cheek in his palm, his eyes dreamy. "So romantic. I only hope I'm around long enough to see how it all ends."

Just then LaCroix became aware of a presence approaching them. That presence. Nicholas stood over the table, regarding Ashley with uneasy, hostile eyes. "LaCroix, we need to talk."

LaCroix didn't look at him. "Later, Nicholas. I'm busy, as you can see." Nick clenched his jaw. God, the boy was beautiful! A slender sylph with silky ashen hair and deep dark eyes, he was made for desire. Nick tightened his jaw. "Now, LaCroix."

LaCroix rose swiftly to his feet. "How dare you. Your defiance is well known among the Community, Nicholas, but I am your master and I will not be spoken to in that manner." Nick felt his hackles rise as they locked gazes, then dropped his eyes. "I--I apologize, LaCroix. May I speak to you, please?"

Ashley rose and slipped past Nick. "Do go, LaCroix. I feel like dancing tonight, and they're playing one of my favorites." He smiled at Nick as he passed.

LaCroix became aware of the eyes upon them. He turned on his heel and went down the hallway to his private office, Nick following.

The door closed, LaCroix turned to his child, and waited. Nick knew what the other was doing--oh, LaCroix understood power so well! No invitation to sit down, no questions. Just silence, while Nick fidgeted.

Finally Nick burst out, "You slept with him, didn't you?"

LaCroix raised one eyebrow, cool and impassive. "I don't see where that is any of your concern, Nicholas."

Each word he had to drag out of himself was torture. "Are you . . . fond of him?"

"Yes."

He wasn't going to make this easy. How much was he going to force Nick to say before he laughed at him, taunted him?

"Do you love him?"

"Nicholas--"

The words came spilling out of him now. "I hated the thought of it, do you know that? Hated you being with him, loving him! I asked myself the same thing, over and over, why does it concern me? Why do I care who he lays with?" He took a restless turn around the room that brought him face-to-face with LaCroix. "Do you know what I did last night?"

LaCroix looked away for a moment. "Celibacy is not a state that I consider a virtue, Nicholas, and you have no reason to expect it of me--"

Nick held up a hand. "No, wait, let me finish. I couldn't talk to anyone about this. The only one would have been Janette, but she isn't here. So I talked to the only thing more unpitying than you. The stars."

Those pale eyes were fixed on him again, and there was something in them besides coldness. "And what did they tell you, Nicholas?" There was no dueling in his words; he really wanted to know.

"That--that it isn't you I've been running from all these years." He could feel the tears welling up, and dropped his face to hide them. "That everyone I've--I've ever loved has left me." He didn't see LaCroix start to raise a hand toward him, then drop it. "That I was afraid--afraid of loving you--afraid you'd leave me, too, and I couldn't--couldn't--" He was sobbing now. He swayed on his feet. "Please, LaCroix--"

"You want me to forgive you, Nicholas? After all this time, after all the forgiveness I've doled out already?"

His child, his beautiful golden child, sank to his knees and put his arms around LaCroix's waist. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Please forgive me, master."

The Roman paterfamilias in him was poised to deliver a lecture, but he couldn't. He put his hand on that golden head.

"Nicholas." His voice was hoarse. "Get up."

Nick didn't answer. The time for words was past. He rubbed his cheek slowly against the front of LaCroix's trousers, brushed his half-open mouth against the subtle swelling as he turned his face to caress him with the other cheek. LaCroix's hand trembled against his head.

"Nicholas--"

He unbuckled LaCroix's belt, undid the top button of his trousers, and leaned forward to catch the tiny tab of the zipper between his teeth. Leaning back on his heels, he pulled the zipper down, then nuzzled into the opening. He inhaled the familiar scent of his master, his lover, as he pulled the scrap of nylon aside with his teeth to get at the erection waiting for him. His tongue had barely touched it when LaCroix stepped back and lifted Nick to his feet.

His master's eyes looked deep into his. "No, mon fils, not like this. We've both waited too long for it to be like this." He adjusted his clothing, then walked his child out the back door into the alley and took to the air.

Nick had never been in LaCroix's townhouse before. He took a look around the living room as LaCroix brought two bottles and two glasses from the bar. "I thought you were living at the Raven."

"Did you? You should know I value my privacy too much for that."

It was very like LaCroix: a spareness that spoke of luxury, a modernism that spoke of timelessness. There were treasures that Nick recognized from the past. He took the glass LaCroix handed him. "What should we toast to?" he asked a little shyly.

"To Tyche. To Fate." They drank, then LaCroix gestured towards the staircase.

He was afraid. So long, Nick thought, it had been so long.

A four poster bed in black steel sat on a raised platform, the black velvet duvet folded neatly back over crisp white sheets. A rug of thick Icelandic sheepskin lay beside it. There was a comfortable black armchair near the window, with a small table beside it, and a dresser. LaCroix set the bottles and glasses down on the bedside table and reached for his son.

Their mouths met in a kiss so thorough and tender it hurt. Lips brushing lips, tongues tracing outlines so familiar, so often remembered. Nick felt a rush of desire sweep over him; he opened his mouth against LaCroix's to welcome the penetrating tongue. They closed tighter, rubbing against each other, grasping each other. Nick sucked on LaCroix's tongue hungrily, drank down his spit, moaned for more. His master drew his tongue into his own mouth, and scraped his fangs across it, swallowing the elixir of that fierce and shining essence.

LaCroix broke the kiss. Staring into those celestial blue eyes, he slipped the black leather jacket off Nick's shoulders and dropped it softly on the floor. His own followed. He wanted to rip the silky shirt off that ivory body, but he moved slowly, undoing each button with agonizing care. He pushed the open shirt down, letting it hang from Nick's waist.

Nick swayed, then closed his eyes. The cool strong hands moved over his shoulders, then down his chest, relearning his body. When LaCroix's arms finally closed around his waist he leaned gratefully into their refuge and raised his own hands to the other's shirt. "No. Not yet," the other said. He kissed Nicholas again, then released him to step away. LaCroix circled his son, drinking in beauty: the tousled blond hair, the graceful curves of the back, bared by the shirt hanging loosely from his arms.

LaCroix wrapped an arm around Nick, playing with his nipples, trailing the lightest kisses along his neck. The sensation of his master's clothes against his own near-nakedness was maddening. Nick wanted to scream his desire, seize LaCroix in his arms and abandon himself to passion.

There could be no abandon yet though, nor openhearted tenderness. LaCroix's pride and sense of decorum demanded something else first. Submission. Not pain, not punishment, but Nick's overt acknowledgment that LaCroix was truly his master, that he was LaCroix's to use in any manner his master chose.

So he forced himself to stand still as LaCroix caressed him, enjoyed him. He couldn't stop himself from moaning softly, though.

Suddenly LaCroix released him, moved away to pour himself a glass. Those pale eyes bored into Nick. "Strip," he commanded.

Nick felt the old resentment flare into his breast. How dare he speak to me as if I was his catamite, his slave! Ah, but you are. Love enslaves, and because you love him, you are his slave. Staring fixedly at the carpet he pulled off his shoes and socks, then his trousers. He kicked them aside, then his hands hesitated at the last scrap of covering. His straining erection was plainly visible against the black silk. LaCroix took a long swallow from the glass. "All of it."

Nick stripped off the bikinis, then advanced hesitantly towards the bed. "Yes," said his master. "Good boy." He climbed into the bed and turned toward LaCroix as the other set down his glass and planted himself in front of Nick's gaze. He undressed coolly and deliberately. It was power that he revealed; even without his clothes LaCroix never seemed naked.

The tall Roman joined him in the bed. Nick couldn't control himself any longer; he wrapped his arms around LaCroix's neck and pulled his face down, opening his mouth against LaCroix's pleadingly. LaCroix cradled his head and gave Nick his mouth, feeding his desire as he sated it. A lion's fangs nipped those rose petal lips, scraped across the throbbing tongue. Blood and spit mingled in their mouths. Nick moaned deep in his throat and writhed under the solidity of that alabaster flesh. LaCroix took possession of his mouth with his tongue, commanding Nick's desire, his submission.

The change swept over his son. Eyes like a summer night flared gold. Nicholas' fangs dropped and just as he would have nipped at the invading tongue LaCroix withdrew. Nicholas thrashed his head on the pillow, but LaCroix held him. "Easy, mon enfant, mon plaisir. You must give something, to be rewarded." The responding whimper was sweet to him. He took a bottle from the table and lifted Nick in his arm, holding the bottle to his lips.

Nick dragged greedily at the bottle blood, would have drained the bottle but LaCroix pulled it away from him. Setting the bottle back on the table he rolled on his back. One long pale arm reached lazily out. Cupping the back of Nicholas' neck he guided his son's head downward. "Now," he murmured, "continue what you started in my office."

He didn't hesitate. He was so hungry for LaCroix, for LaCroix's cock. His mouth closed around it, lips tightening around the rim under the head, tongue lapping eagerly at the silken skin. When he felt the hips beneath him start to buck he rammed his head down on the shaft, taking it all. His own cock grew painfully hard as the other filled his mouth and throat. He tightened his lips again and drew back slowly. LaCroix groaned. Satisfied, he repeated the action again and again, milking LaCroix's cock.

Gradually he increased the speed, until his master snarled. Nick relaxed his throat just LaCroix grabbed his head and started fucking his mouth. It was simple and brutal and overwhelmingly exciting to both of them. The older man grasped the younger's wrist and brought it to his mouth as he came, tearing the flesh open to get at the rich blood.

He whimpered, and turned his head to bite into his master's thigh. A strong hand grasped his head and pulled him away. "You take when I say you can," the ancient rasped. Nick closed his eyes, a sob rising in his throat. "Please..."

The hand that held his hair released him, stroked his cheek gently. He turned his face into the caress, kissing the palm. "Shhh,"--his father, his lover--"it's your turn now." Gently he was lifted and turned on the linen sheets. Gently his erection was kissed, caressed, licked. LaCroix's tongue moved lovingly over his cock, dipped down to encircle his scrotum, nipping at the tightened skin lightly. Then he took Nicholas' cock in his mouth and worked it thoroughly. It had been so long, and he made up for all those lonely years when all he had had of Nicholas was memories.

Nicholas' hands stroked down his neck, and across his shoulders; the lovely body writhed and tossed underneath him. LaCroix shifted his position and pulled the golden head to his thigh. Just as Nicholas cried out, he hissed "Now!" The other's fangs tore into his femoral artery just as he closed his mouth over Nicholas' cock. His son's come flooded his mouth and LaCroix received it as the sacred nectar of the gods. My own, he thought, awed. My son, my friend, my brother, my beloved. Do you wonder why I could never let you go? he thought, not caring if Nicholas could read it in his blood.

They lay quietly for a moment, bodies sweat-slick, mouths smeared with blood and come. Softly, Nick' hand stole into LaCroix's. Do you love me? he wanted to ask. Will you never leave me? But, no. How much more could LaCroix prove it? He squeezed the hand. LaCroix turned his head, and lifted his arm to gather Nick to his side.

Nick pillowed his head on the shield-like chest, running his hand over the alabaster flesh. He twined his legs with LaCroix's, brushed the nearest nipple with his lips. "I want the rest," he said quietly.

A smile quirked the edge of his master's mouth. "And what would that be?" he inquired drily.

"You've taken possession of the rest of me. My mouth, my blood, my come." He levered himself up on his elbow to look into LaCroix's eyes. "Now take the rest."

Whatever he'd expected to see in those eyes--lust, gloating, triumph--it wasn't the vulnerability he found there. LaCroix reached a hand to his cheek, whispering "And what if I told you I was afraid to do so, Nicholas?"

"You? What do you have to fear?"

A rueful laugh, then: "You still underestimate the depth of my feelings for you. I fear I will not be able to be as gentle with you as I should."

"I don't care. I just want . . . want you to do it. To take me. To claim me."

LaCroix lay still for a moment, marshalling all his control. Nicholas was right: his possession of him must be complete, for the master to totally reclaim his child. He firmly put away the fear that he would rip into Nicholas like a maddened beast. In his mortal life, the taking and enjoyment of a subordinate male would certainly not have been beyond his erotic skills. But in those days he had not been a lover, only a master. Now he was both.

He knelt and piled the pillows so that Nicholas would be positioned for his enjoyment. The thought flickered past his mind that only a night ago he had done this for Ashley. No matter. He lifted the pliant body, arranging Nicholas across the pillows. So beautiful, he thought. He leaned over to whisper in his boy's ear: "I will take you, Nicholas. However you feel about it afterwards, remember that it was your wish that I do so. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The hushed answer spoke of desire, but no hesitation. He knew what he was in for. LaCroix knew how to take, and take thoroughly.

Nick wrapped his arms around the pillows and lowered his head. Those hands--those cool strong hands--moved down his back lingeringly. LaCroix moved closer, kissing the back of his neck, then down his spine, as he kneaded Nick's buttocks. The caresses, he knew, were not for his enjoyment, but for LaCroix's. Somehow the knowledge was intensely exciting. He shifted on the pillows, easing his erection, and heard a low chuckle.

Cool lips explored his buttocks, then a wet tongue traced the cleft. The hands moved down on his thighs. LaCroix's touch was harder now, stroking the tightened muscles. He felt his master's thumbs slip between his cheeks and he spread his legs slightly. LaCroix's weight came down on his back. Soon, he thought--oh, please, soon! Instead a hard cock was nestled between his buttocks and a lazy mouth played up and down his neck. He groaned as LaCroix dryhumped him, fangs scraping teasingly along his carotid. He was barely aware that he was grinding against LaCroix's cock until his master laughed softly. "That's a good boy. You want to be ridden, don't you, my love?"

When Nick didn't answer he prompted, "Don't you?"

"Yes," Nick groaned. "God, yes." LaCroix slipped a hand underneath to gauge his erection. "Hmm, I think you need to calm down a bit." He moved away. Nick hissed involuntarily. "Easy, now." A hand played over his buttocks. "Such a fine ass. Lovely to slam against." One finger teased his anus. "And so tight, if I recall correctly." The finger pushed into him; Nick contracted instinctively. "Yes, very tight--and eager."

The finger eased out as a probing tongue replaced it. Nick shivered as LaCroix licked at the puckered opening, then down the cleft to his perineum and back up. He tightened his grip on the pillows. Then LaCroix was pushing his tongue inside him, his tongue soft and wet, licking him from the inside. It was the most helplessly erotic position to be in. There was simply no way to thrust against a tongue; one could not act, only react. Which he knew was precisely the point. And the damnation of it was, that it felt so good!

He tried to slip his hand to his cock, but LaCroix pulled his wrist away. "No," he said simply.

"God, please. Please."

His master leaned over him. "Do you want me, Nicholas?"

"Yes!"

LaCroix thrust into him in one long stroke and Nicholas screamed. Never realizing there was an emptiness inside you, until that emptiness was filled, and you discovered how badly you'd longed for that fulfillment . . .! He thrust back against that powerful cock, impaling himself, animal sounds rising from deep within him. LaCroix pinned him down and took him, riding him deep and hard.

Then a strong arm wrapped around his chest and lifted him up and back. LaCroix's cock drove deeper into him as he arched his back against his master's chest. His head dropped back onto LaCroix's shoulder as a hand wrapped around his cock, pumping him, milking him.

A red and golden glow swam before his unfocused eyes, while the arm clamped across his chest and the sweat that glued them together stood out in pinpoint clarity. Every nerve and muscle in his body was taut to the point of snapping. He ground down on LaCroix's cock, greedy--then LaCroix's tongue touched his neck and he snapped. As the arm supporting him was offered he seized it, piercing it, and as his master's rich blood flooded into him his come flooded over LaCroix's hand. Then the fangs pierced his own throat.

Time stopped. They were suspended in a dance of blood and life. To be part of that dance was to hold the universe within themselves.

Slowly the vision ebbed away from them. Gently they disengaged, laughing a little at the soaked mess they'd made of the bed. Later perhaps they'd rise, shower, change the bed. For now they lay cradled in each other's arms. Forever, they thought as one, and smiled at each other.

Nicholas stretched, glancing at the steel poles behind his head. "Nice bed, Lucien. Ever tie anyone to it?"

His lover's mouth quirked. "Not lately. Are you volunteering?"

Nick threw a pillow at him.

FINIS