If cloud nine and masochism could swirl into a mix of some sort of new emotion, he was probably feeling it. All the pain he had endured earlier still so obviously throbs through his figure, as he lays there next to me struggling for breath. Guilty as I am for snagging it away, I had actually quite enjoyed watching him squirm in all the ways he had. Evidently he had taken a pleasure in the agony forced upon him, too.
          Now I simply sit here amidst the dark blue sheets, which have been thrown, wrenched, and twisted askew. The blankets that had once accompanied them were now piled onto the floor near the bed; I'd taken the liberty of temporarily disposing them when he had tried to hide beneath them. The pillows had been abandoned as well: They weren't very trustworthy shields in the first place, and my impatience with him had turned to pure irritation when he had attempted to hinder me with them.
          Several bite marks on his neck would explain that irritation. In the beginning they had been meant to fluster him, express affection and the will to satisfy his desire for pain. When he had irked me by toying with me—using whatever on the bed to protect him, to slow me down—the bites still meant all that, but had then coupled with lust and my uproar of sadism. Blood had been drawn where my fangs had broken skin: I had told myself after the first couple of bites to let him breathe and recover for a bit, but both the wild dog and vampire in me couldn't resist all that warm blood. I had begun gnawing, more and more, feeding off the very substance that gave him life. All the while his muscles had tensed, locked, contracted beneath me as his body jerked with pain, his loud but near breathless moans only encouraging me to bite down more as they sparked my yearning's flame to a bonfire.
          Increasing that yearning had brought my nails into the skin on his ribcage, and they'd dug and clawed and scratched in demand of hearing him cry out more. I'd still been biting, harder and harder onto his neck as his blood and moans and squirming beckoned me to do so. Though I hadn't been the one being forced to experience that agony, my own mind was horrendously enshrouded with ecstasy, as my sadistic needs were being satisfied just as his masochistic ones were—
          "Why..."
          Though it is almost inaudible, his voice pulls me from recalling earlier occurrences and I find my heart racing again. Blinking once or twice, I look down to him to find him lying weak on his left side; he clutches my arm feebly, panting so heavily I fear he may start wheezing soon.
          I show no empathy, however. I only gaze down at him, with a glazed look in both eyes and a seemingly careless expression. The blue-tipped canine ears on my head twitch slowly, almost wearily, as I study him inquiringly. Then I speak, my voice no higher than a soft whisper: "Why what, love?"
          "Why—did you stop—?" It's apparent that he's still in pain: He forces every word out with an exhausted difficulty, winces as each one spoken summons up liquid fire from the wounds in his neck. In spite of his outward appearance, the faint shimmer in those silver-blue eyes is pleading, begging for me to wreck him again.
          My position remains unchanged, however. "I needed a break," I whisper to him. "You did, too."
          At this, his grip on my forearm tightens and a shudder quakes him. His breathing has quieted, though he's still trying to regain some oxygen. The harder he squeezes my arm, the softer his voice becomes, the harder he trembles in utter anticipation, his desperation becomes so much clearer, second by second.
          "N-No..."
          "No?" I echo flatly, just barely raising a brow, until he forces himself to his knees just a couple of inches away. At first his movements are slow—a tad jerky due to the pain I inflicted on him. When he builds support in his knees and thighs, he sits there hunched close to me, still clutching my arm. But it's both hands now, and they've caught hold of my bicep. For long moments he remains hunched, gripping my arm, breathing heavier than normal but much quieter than before.
          A word of wisdom, for those that don't know this already: Foxes, though charming and handsome as they come, are all tricksters in some cunning way. This one is no different, and because of my inattentiveness he has me now in captivity. In just an instant, he somehow managed to deceive me. The last I remember before he swiftly bound my wrists together behind my back was being considerably close to him. He had slowly straightened upwards, having regained a majority of breath, and he'd nuzzled up my neck in what I had thought to be a weak, pleading manner. However, the kiss he'd been about to give me was only to distract me—and it had worked.
          With the strength that was undoubtedly his, he straddles my lower ribs and pins my shoulders further into the sheets, a desirable leer emanating from his eyes. Though he has a firm lock on me, his arms and shoulders are shaking violently; the sleek fox tail behind him wags slowly, eagerly.
          "No breaks," he says quietly, sounding each word carefully as though I don't understand.
          "Not—" My words are cut off and thrown aside as he presses his lips against mine. Ten seconds that feel eternal pass by ever so slowly, and I'm left breathless, flustered, and reluctant to let him pull away. Had I any control of my hands—or my entire body for that matter—I would pull him back down.
          Then again, he's always been the perfect mind reader. His gentle eyes seem to say, "You don't have to ask", and he leans down for another kiss, slower and longer this time. As he was probably imagining, relaxation and contentment smoothes out my muscles. I let my eyes close as he drugs my mind with the cloud nine sensation, albeit it isn't like I can't feel his hands wrapping around my throat.