A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

New York Moon | February 25, 2010

The New York Moon is high, and staring down at us. The sound of traffic is like an urban harmony.

Not too loud, but never quiet. Always someone going somewhere, a honk of horn, a whistle for attention, the echo hollow of heels on pavement like a tattoo drumming its way down the sidewalk.

Always some kind of ambient noise in the night. And it’s early, the wolves of new York haven’t even started to howl yet. We left the strip club because on a lunar night, it’s just too easy to bait the wolf inside. Really, it’s like a perverse kind of pleasure.

Make yourself as horny as can be, and watch your pack mate do the same, turn each other on. Without even touching or saying a word.

Being around naked bodies, that do the most graceful movements that are designed to tantalize this kind of thinking…well, you see were I’m going with this? Then unleash yourself onto one another when you can no longer bear to be in control.

My body quivers with need, and touch to it is like instant pleasure because my body just drips in sexual need on nights like these.

The way Paris looks at me, would make anyone watching or silent exchange of heated looks, blush from their toes to their face. Pheromones coat the air and this is what it’s like to be wrapped up in a base pleasure.

A wildly wanton urge that’s only ever going to be sated by the Alpha male before me.

I think he’s desperate.
I think he wants his fill.
I think I’m it.

Neither of us has said a word to one another since before we left the club.

He pulls me around the corner and into a darkened, closed, doorway. We’re out of sight from the immediate view of the street around us.

“You think you’re going to do me here?” I taunt him. He stops inches from my neck, which he was about to ravage and I watch him fight for that leash of control he wields most of the time, so tightly and well. He pulls back and looks at me expectantly.

“You’re not going to do me here.” I smile at Paris, pushing off the door and walking back out around him.

I hear him swear in a low voice. Something rather crude in French if I’m not mistaken. But I think it was directed at himself though, for falling so easily into his own desires and caving in to the lust that’s rising in him.

Which makes the wolf inside, not just restless, edgy. Dangerously edgy. He prefers it when I’m the one that’s the closest to the edge of desire and he’s in control. He walks back over to me and we continue on our way. It’s not that far to his place.

If we can make it back in one piece. If the two wolves inside us can stop fighting ourselves and the attraction to one another long enough, to let us get back to his place.

He signals for a cab so we can get there faster. Get where we really want to be. Only, I’m in a ‘mood’you see, I want to play.

And I’m straddling his lap and pushing my warm, soft body against his. Unbuttoning his shirt and licking his collar bone. Grazing his neck with my teeth.

He tells me later on, the cabbie kept glancing in the mirror at us. But we didn’t put on a full show. Not then, not there. Finally, he truly gets me alone and I’m beginning to think by the look in those dark blue eyes, that maybe, I’m at his mercy.

Because the look in those midnight cobalt eyes tell me Paris is really, ready to play now and perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed him.

We fall back on the bed and one of my high heels falls off my foot I kick the other off loosely as he’s suddenly looming above me, over me and I realize I’ve gone to far back on the bed and my head is hanging back over the far edge, so it can’t rest on anything.

But it exposes my neck perfectly to him. And he starts kissing me, fast, hungrily and under my jaw and I realize I’m about ready to start begging for more contact. And he pulls away. Leaves my neck cold and bare and bereft of his touch.

I lift my head to look back up and over at him. He’s pulling at his shirt, getting it off his body as quickly as he can. The way his muscles move as he rips the clothing haphazardly from his skin, is like, grace. And I find myself automatically clenching my thighs and holding my breath. When the shirt is gone, the rest of his clothing falls and follows.

He is magnificent. A dark sculpted silhouette against the night sky behind him.

Paris opens the blinds to the bedroom so the room is filled with the light of moonlight. I sigh, Paris growls with a little smile on those lush lips.

Accentuated playfulness twinkles in his eyes and I’m beginning to think we’re in for a long, slow, memorable night ahead.

I hope my skin bruised those lips, made them puffy from moving so quickly over me, as to tantalize my memory and deny my body it’s craving of him.

The man smolders before me, as the night backlights him. His hands on those narrowed hips, staring down at me. Contemplating my fate. Making him seem even more tantalizing, dangerous to me.

I want to kiss the moonlit outline of his body. See if I can taste moonbeams on his skin, smell the scent of his wolf bathed in the night time glow.

This last thought has my wolf getting happy. I can feel the sensation of her pacing. Waiting for me to leap at the Alpha male before me. Telling me to literally, jump his bones.

He senses my need and can probably scent the wolf inside, so close to the surface of me. It’s like a double dosed aphrodisiac.

Before I can rush him, he grabs my ankles and yanks me across the bed, back towards him, so I slide across it. But as I do I move with liquid speed, that us werewolves can posses. And I’m up in his arms, against his chest, as we fall back towards the wall, nearest the widow.

And it’s on, between us.

Mouths and lips and skin and heat. Hands and fingers, and hips grinding and my clothing tearing and falling and we’re rushing one another. Because we no longer need to hold back, want to hold back.

Somewhere in the rush I get turned about and put on the widow ledge. I can feel the moon light dancing across the back of me, as my legs wrap around Paris’s hips and we move together quickly.

It’s a sensual soft heat, radiating against my skin, a stark contrast to the feverish touch of his chest, pushing against my chest. His legs slapping against my skin.

I bite back a moan and he tells me to howl for him. Howl into the New York night.

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