I impatiently pulled off his shirt and scraped my teeth over his shoulder as I fumbled with his belt buckle. He snatched away my towel and then reached for the gold penknife that he kept on the bed table.

Ian flicked the knife open and took my hand in his. My blood rose toward him, wanting release. Although I felt the blade slice into my palm, it never hurt when he cut me. Ian licked at the blood that spilled from the cut, and the prodding of his tongue sent delicious tremors into the gash and through me.

A few seconds later, my skin had healed and was smooth again.

I took the knife and pressed the tip against his chest, forcing the cut to stay open long enough for a crimson rivulet of blood to run down through the dark hair toward his firm belly, and then I was licking and sucking, intoxicated by the incredible taste, pleasure thrumming through me, every nerve alive to the slightest touch of his fingers, lips, body.

He painted a line on my skin with blood, his tongue and lips following it until pleasure grabbed me like a riptide, dragging me so deep that I thought I wouldn’t surface again, and when I finally did, I had bitten deep into the flesh on Ian’s leg.

And then things got fiercer. A chair was broken and sheets were flecked with scarlet. Feathers from a torn pillow floated in the air and stuck to our bodies.

We fell back on the floor, our sweaty limbs intertwined, and let our wounds heal and our heartbeats slow to normal.

Ian said, “We should be able to rid ourselves of all the furniture this way.” He turned on his side toward me and leaned over to lick a last drop of blood from the hollow of my neck.

“You could just donate everything to the Goodwill.”

“I wouldn’t wish such ugliness on anyone.”

I ran my hand over his thigh before I slipped my arm around his waist, pulling closer to him. I had a smooth pink scar on my inner arm from the time I’d been slashed and he’d transfused his blood into the wound to save me, and now it throbbed warm in response to his skin. I said,

“‘Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.’”

Ian kissed my temple and said, “You were the one being coy, mistress.”

Pleased that he’d recognized the Andrew Marvell verse, I said, “Have you used that poem to seduce virgins?”

“Generally a limerick will suffice.” He grinned and stood, then offered me a hand up. “I’m happy to be with you again, Young Lady.”