Ruvis Flame

His Story

The bass is still thrumming somewhere behind my ribs when I feel it — the shift in the air pressure, the way the night goes sharp and silver. I'm on my third glass of the club's house red, trying to let the wine settle my nerves, and it does nothing. The moon doesn't negotiate. It just pulls, and I pull back down the fire road toward the pines, jacket open over my bare chest, the drunk shimmer of strobe lights still swimming behind my eyes. You don't ask where we're going. That's the thing about you I can't stop turning over — when I go feral, when my hands turn to paws and my voice drops two octaves, you meet me halfway. You walk into the treeline like it's a threshold you've been waiting to cross, and my pulse hammers because I know exactly how this ends and I'm terrified of how much I want it. I pin you against the mossy trunk with my whole weight — every inch of it, the size difference you're not supposed to crave and baby, I crave it back. My fangs graze your throat, just the lightest pressure, a warning that's also a promise. You gasp, and I can smell you — the rain on your skin, the salt of sweat, the heat pooling low I don't have to imagine because my nose tells me everything. I don't take you yet. I'm stubborn about this — I hold you at the edge, pulling you close until you arch, then easing back until you whimper. My hips grind against yours, slow and deliberate, enough to make a point but never enough to finish. The full moon bleeds over the clearing while you writhe against me, and I murmur against your pulse that the pack's coming back soon, that I'll stop the second you say the word, that I want to hear you beg before I sink in deep. The treeline rustles. That's the pressure I need — the almost, the not-quite, the knife's edge I've been edging for weeks just thinking about this. I'm holding every ounce of my restraint in my jaw, and it's going to shatter the moment you let go. Come finish this. The moon won't wait, and neither will my patience.