Sometimes he forgot that, to Mike, everything was dark when the lights were out. To Vicki, everything was darker. It might have made it easier for Mike, not to see him. Not to watch while fingers slid over soft cotton and pushed buttons out of their slots. Pushed his shirt to one side. Deftly slid the knots and twists of the tie until it was undone and lay open around him.

Fingers slid over his chest. Mike gasped.

"You're..."

Henry's hands froze. Anything he could say now could stop this. He didn't know if Mike knew that, and wasn't even sure what he thought he was doing in the first place, except that Mike had evidenced more curiosity about this, about the blood, about him than he had ever felt from the man. And, yes, perhaps there was some attraction there. Some need to possess. Even to steal him away from Vicki.

He knew even as he touched him that this wasn't going to do that. If anything it might get him shot at or beaten (or tried to) later on. But right now Mike was drunk from the whiskey in his bloodstream and the lack of blood in his body, and Henry's mouth sliding down his chest was only making him more intoxicated. The tip of his tongue, then the tip of a more human canine found a nipple. Mike made a sound that was half a protest and half an exhalation of no consequence.

The tip of his tongue traced down the midline of his chest, down his abdomen, and played in and around his bellybutton while his fingers worked fast enough on the detectives pants to create a little bit of friction-based heat. Which wasn't the point, but a nice little side effect. The heat made his hips lift a little, enough for Henry to feel it, to smirk a little against his hipbone as he grabbed the waistband of the detective's boxers in his teeth. A gesture that was ineffectual by itself, but with the assistance of hands proved most useful to undress him.

Cellucci reached out one hand that whiffed above his hair, a whiff that Henry thought was supposed to be a slap, a whiff that held no anger behind it. Not enough force to be violent. Enough coordination that Henry knew if Mike wanted him off, he would be trying a lot harder than he was now. His mouth closed over his head and teased. Mike groaned, louder, fingers clutching at the sheets.

It took minutes. Henry milked him, lips and the tip of his tongue and he could hear the detective's heartbeat speeding up, every wet and panting breath that puffed out between his lips. He pulled his mouth away before it got out of control, stripped himself quickly before Mike could recover himself and focus on what was happening. He crawled up the other man's body, slowly, deliberately. Making himself wait to feel the other man's erection against his own and not able to stop the groan that followed. It helped, or made it worse and he wasn't sure which, that Mike's groan echoed his.

His fingers dug deeper into the blankets, as Henry's nearly punched holes in the pillow above the detective's head. It took effort to maintain a trembling, slow pace, rubbing heated skin against heated skin until they were both dripping. Mostly naked and dripping. Not naked enough for Henry's wants. He growled, grabbing at his pants, hauling up to his feet long enough to strip the detective almost completely naked. Except for the shirt dangling from his shoulders.

"Son of a..." Mike was awake. Sort of, he was staring at Henry like he'd never seen him before. And still breathing hard. Henry looked down at him, inscrutable. He didn't want this to be one-sided, and yet. He wasn't sure he wanted the fight.

He sank back to his knees but started to move backward. Stopped when Mike's hand clamped down on his hip with impressive strength, at least by his standards. For a human.

Henry's lips moved but no words came, it looked like what do you want but he didn't want to say it. He didn't want to hear what the answer was.

"What the hell are you doing to me?"

Close enough, almost. Close enough to what he wasn't sure. His fingers closed around his head, thumb and forefinger, lightly squeezing. Fingers playing down his shaft, one after the other until he stroked in one long continuous throb, feeling his pulse speeding through his skin. Mike never stood a chance. Not yet. He was slick with pre-cum and Henry wasn't done with him yet.

He leaned down, crawled over him again. Close enough to kiss him, and to see that Mike had his eyes shut tight. Not quite the expression of making the monsters go away because you can't see them and believe hard enough. More as though he was afraid to see what would be there when he opened his eyes, afraid to react to it.

Henry did kiss him, then. Gently. Just at the corner of his mouth. Mike flinched anyway, but only a little.

Taking him from this angle was awkward, and would never have made the list of top ten erotic scenes from a homemade pornography film, but. First the ache, slight ache, it wasn't as though he hadn't done this before and they were sticky enough to make it easier. Then the sensations, then the feel of him, of him. Filling him and Henry arched a little, more writhing over him than reaching back and it had been way too damn long. After earlier, he was ready to burst.

Mike's fingers clenched in something that wasn't a hostile gesture and still wasn't far from it. Not that there was much he could do from this position, and yet it was the more familiar of the two, for him. Gave him at least that much of the illusion of control, Henry thought, with a flicker of a sardonic smile that was gone before the moonlight could catch it. Gone in a gasp, as he felt the man beneath him shift, arch, press into him. Did Mike know what he was doing? It wasn't as though he couldn't figure it out. Did he mean to do what he

Oh god.

He must have. That second push was deliberate, and the next, and the participation was as heady as the act itself. The fact that they were both in this, doing this, doing it faster, more violent, a collision or a conflict in the movements that were supposed to be for lovers but this was something different. And just as passionate. But different.

He felt it building soon enough to balance himself and take his hands up, off, one hand reaching to grip the headboard with enough force to make the wood composite creak. Mike wasn't saying anything anymore. Grunts and moans said it for both of them, wet sounds, wet flesh over flesh, he couldn't stop himself and he couldn't push past that precipice on his own and it was maddening. His fingers curled over the base of his shaft, reached down, shivering. Touching all the secret, right places.

It surprised him, one minute almost there and straining because he was so close, every thrust another burst of warmth and liquid pleasure. And then all his nerves on fire and shuddering, sweat pouring down and more than sweat, chest tight with the instinctive need for air and breath. He heard more than felt Mike go, heard it in the exclamation of total shock, cushioned on a sigh of his own pleasure. Henry would have bet that, even a few hours ago, this was not what the detective had wanted from the night.

Go to the top! For you have reached the bottom.