In your arms, your teeth break my skin; I know I want to die tonight.

Thirteen stems sit thirsty in a vase perched on the window sill. I watch the soft, pink petals sever, drop and pirouette down onto the bed, two-by-one-by-three. I wait.

And suddenly, you come over me. Your fingers grasp my silken sheath, rending it in high-pitched screams, the shreds falling to the floor. Porcelain skin, bared, glowing in the moonlight shining past the vase of broken stems whose bony fingered shadows reach toward me but sink into the murky sea of satin I am floating on.

Grasping, you turn me, pressing breasts and belly to the sheets while sitting with your thighs spread wide, pinning mine fast against the bed. The first crack and my breath is torn in quickening gasps as, over and over, you welt my back in long, thick, lashing lines from blades to gently sloping globes. Then I shiver as, tracing those lines you slither up along my back and through the heat, your piercing teeth penetrate my neck.

You know my need.

Shifting, you enter me, pushing deep and filling me. Then you retreat. I chase, wanting. With urgent, pressing need, I pursue. Pressure building, I seek.

Then the little death, it comes for me. Cresting crescendo, crying out, I find I cannot breathe until at last, I am gasping against the smooth, black satin sheet beneath my cheek.

And turning, I find, as quick as you were there, you are gone.