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Daniel watches Armand’s fingers graze the other man’s wrist — Morgan, did he say his name was? Mason? — before returning to the rim of his glass tumbler. Mason’s eyes follow Armand’s hand as it withdraws, the longing transparent on his face.
Daniel can’t blame him.
It’s difficult to take his own eyes off Armand on nights like this: when he’s hunting, but not for the kill. Impossibly beautiful in a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest and a gold necklace glittering along his collarbones, his hair a halo of black curls. His every movement is an invitation, every word from his mouth a murmur in a darkened bedroom. A soft yellow light illuminates his features. When Daniel turns his head in the opposite direction, he can feel the warmth of this light on the back of his neck.
Armand’s eyes, fixed unblinkingly on this stranger, are volcanic.
Do you like him, Daniel? Armand’s voice in his head always sounds like a whisper directly into his ear. The hairs stand up all over his forearms.
With difficulty, Daniel turns his attention to the man sitting beside them at the bar. He’s solid, muscular, an inch or so shorter than Daniel’s six feet. His dark hair needs a trim — he’s swept his bangs to the side to keep them from flopping into his eyes — but he’s got a friendly smile, a sweetness about his face that contrasts with his imposing build.
Sure, Daniel thinks. Why not?
Armand smiles, not taking his eyes off their new companion. “How would you like to have a drink back at my apartment, Martin?”
Martin does a poor job at disguising his eagerness. “I’d like that.”
“Wonderful,” says Armand. He talks like a business executive. He talks like a streetwalker. Daniel is forever making up his mind. “Meet us outside in ten minutes, won’t you?”
***
Back in the large, largely unfurnished New York apartment, Armand seats himself in the velvet-lined armchair in the corner and explains to Martin how he intends their evening to unfold. Daniel and Martin hover together by the bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Martin’s nervous energy is contagious.
Armand has now made himself untouchable, his legs crossed and hands folded neatly in his lap. That Daniel fucked him in this bed only the other night seems like an impossibility. Surely these images of Armand naked and doe-eyed are a mirage planted in Daniel’s mind. Surely the creature in those memories can’t be the same one now regarding him with eyes of cold resin from this high-backed emerald chair.
Armand directs them. Daniel on his back on the bed. Martin kneeling between his thighs, unbuttoning Daniel’s jeans, kissing the hair on his belly.
To Daniel, Armand says, he wants you.
Not as much as he wants you.
Armand smiles like an indulgent parent. He’s noticed your beauty, now. And he wants to perform well.
Daniel doesn’t need psychic powers to sense Martin’s eagerness to please. He’s breathless even before he takes Daniel’s half-hard dick into his mouth. When Armand gives him a word of praise, he flushes pink down to his neck.
Shall I let him have you?
Armand, of course, has already made up his mind. His commands to Martin take on a lascivious specificity: hold his wrist there, use your fingers just so.
The dick feels bigger than it looks. Daniel wraps his arms around Martin’s shoulders and stifles his moan in the crook of Martin's neck. His skin feels good against Daniel’s cheek: hot, clinging with sweat. Yes, this is what a living body feels like, smells like, tastes like. In the months since they last played this game, Daniel had forgotten.
“You can be rough with him." Armand's silky, sex-line-operator purr. “He enjoys a little pain.”
Daniel turns his head to look at Armand. Still with his legs crossed, his hands laid on the wings of the chair, his outfit perfectly unruffled. There’s something vulgar about his stillness, about this entire obscene tableau. Armand observes them like they're a pair of wild animals screwing in the woods, like a professional curiosity. And then he has to gall to interfere, to make sure male specimen number-whichever knows how many fingers Daniel likes to be fucked with.
“Touch yourself,” Daniel says.
Armand laughs softly, inaudibly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Do it,” Daniel insists, surprised by the anger in his own voice.
Armand stops smiling. “Martin, my presence seems to be distracting your partner.” His eyes stay locked on Daniel’s face, and for an instant he looks positively vengeful. “Turn him on his stomach.”
***
They’re still catching their breath when Armand rises from his chair and crosses to the foot of the bed. Benevolent now, businesslike.
“Shall I call you a taxi, Martin? We’ll pay for your ride home, of course.”
Martin’s overgrown bangs are glued to his forehead with sweat. He blinks up at Armand, hardly comprehending that he’s been dismissed. He wasn’t a bad lay, when it came down to it. Daniel’s difficulty levering himself into an upright position can attest to that. Martin is so comically disoriented as he stumbles back into his clothes that Daniel finds himself offering to walk him out, even kissing him goodbye at the door. Least he can do for the poor schmuck.
Daniel returns to the main room to find Armand standing exactly where they left him, gazing absently at the dirty bed sheets.
“One of these guys is going to try to kill you eventually.”
Armand blinks at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Daniel digs an almost-empty pack of smokes out of his jean pocket and crosses to the window, not bothering to pull the jeans on over his briefs. He wrenches the frame open and pokes his head out, hoping the cold air will wake him up some. Like a slap to the face in a sitcom — snap out of it, bozo. He’s so tired it takes him three tries to light a cigarette.
Armand sits down cross-legged next to Daniel on the floor. In the thin light of early morning, he looks small and young, a gangling college student still growing into the sensuality of his own face.
Daniel knows better. He can’t stand the sight of Armand all of a sudden, and turns instead to the jagged urban horizon. How many people is he looking at right now? — sleeping, screwing, dragging themselves out of bed to face a long commute. A vampire could hear them, could open up his ear to the city and get every story without having to ask a single question. Then again, maybe a vampire wouldn’t care. Maybe all a vampire ever really sees is his next meal.
“I’m just the same as him, aren’t I?” Daniel says. “A bug in a jar to keep you entertained for a night or so. That's all. Out the back door as soon as you get bored.”
Armand pauses a moment before answering. “He bored me. You don’t.”
“Yeah? And how long will that last?”
Armand’s fingers find the back of Daniel’s neck and tangle in the curls at the base of his skull. Cool fingers, soft skin. He never lets Daniel feel his nails.
“I would care for you for the rest of your life, if you let me. I would take you with me to my other homes. I would cherish you even on your deathbed.”
Always the perfect response, delivered in the perfect soothing undertone. Daniel believes him. Daniel wants him, damn it. Daniel can almost forget the obvious — that he never needs to be on his deathbed at all.
“So, sixty years, give or take. Got it.”
A chilly breeze ruffles Daniel’s hair and makes him shiver. In a minute he'll go into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee — he doesn’t want to sleep just yet. But the sunrise is worth watching this morning, pale pink stripes of cloud creeping across a baby blue sky. He thinks of asking Armand to take a photo with one of his expensive cameras. He thinks of telling Armand he doesn’t really feel the same as Martin, that he’s sorry for picking a fight. But his cigarette burns down to the nub and he puts it out on the windowsill, a dark smear of soot on the white paint, and he turns to find himself — as he knew he would — in an empty room.