I am lying here, satiated, exhausted in the most exhilarating way, watching him sleep. I prop the side of my head up on my hand and examine his face. Resting, he seems so very young. I have to smile at that. He looks maybe 25 or 30; he is, in fact, very nearly 200. He sleeps, though, with the utter abandon of an exhausted toddler.

His hair, bleached to a gleaming platinum, is tangled and damp. It is all I can do to keep my fingers from twisting a lock of that hair into a curl on his forehead. I don’t really want to wake him. I just want to absorb this moment. His eyebrows are dark and gracefully shaped. Not shaggy. Not tweezed to an artificial standard.

The left one is marred by a scar. It doesn’t matter. The scar adds character to his face, forestalling any hint of prettiness.

Though closed now in sleep, his eyes are dark blue. Stormy eyes. He tries so hard not to reveal too much of himself, but he can’t hide the truth that shines in his eyes. What truth? That he is filled with passion. Such love. Such lust. Such hate. He does nothing by halves and this is revealed in his eyes. Well, it is to those who know how to look. The dark lashes flutter slightly. He must be dreaming. I hope they are sweet dreams. Although, I can’t help wondering, what constitutes sweet dreams for a vampire? Do I really want to know? Probably not.

His cheekbones. If I were a poet, I would write sonnets about his cheekbones. Prominent and elegant, they can take my breath sometimes. They cast shadows now above his jaw. A strong jaw he has, too. One that leads, I must admit, to a rather weak chin. Well, he can’t be completely perfect. Too much perfection is ultimately boring. And he is anything but boring.

His mouth is lax in sleep. His wonderful, marvelously mobile mouth. I can feel myself flush now just thinking of the talents possessed by that mouth. The upper lip is a trifle thin but beautifully shaped, the lower lip full and sensuous. When he is angry, his mouth clenches tight as a fist. When he smiles, it curls like kitten lips. When he kisses, the whole world disappears and I know nothing but his mouth.

Shall I consider the rest of his nude beauty? I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry, and I know the answer. Of course. I don’t think I could stop now even if I wished.

I let my gaze drift down the column of his throat to his collarbones. I am entranced by their gentle curve. He is not a muscle-bound hulk, a football player. His is a whipcord lean body, as powerful as a coiled spring. He has a unique quality of grace, even when sprawled across my bed. His skin is smooth and cool, pale as cream, flawless. The marks from our lovemaking are already beginning to fade.

His shoulders are broad yet compact, muscular but not overly so. His chest, quiescent, not rising and falling with breath, is firm and well defined. The nipples, unaroused now, are dark against the pale flesh. My gaze drifts slowly down his abdomen. I can feel that little tickle begin in mine and I find swallowing less than easy. My fingers tingle with the desire to trace each muscle.

A thin line of dark hair begins at his navel and leads my eyes inexorably to the juncture of his thighs. His chest is hairless, but his pubic hair is thick, almost luxuriant, and very dark. He is uncircumcised. For some reason, that surprised me when I first saw him nude. It shouldn’t have, of course. I know that, even now, Americans are far more likely to be circumcised than Europeans.

Well, he seems to be stirring to life, his flaccid penis moving against his thigh. I glance at his face. At first glance, he seems still asleep. But, there, a crinkling at the corners of his eyes and a minuscule twitch of the lips give him away. I lean a little closer, letting my breath murmur against his face. One of those blue eyes opens. No storm clouds now, just tranquillity. And a bit of mischief.

“See somethin’ ya fancy?”

“What do you think?”

He lifts one hand languidly. He strokes the back of it along my jaw and brushes my lips. “I know I do.”

I grin, moving closer. A hint of challenge in my voice, I murmur, “Prove it.”

He does.

The end