Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.
Author's Note: Mixture of script and movie canons. Pointless fluff 'n' smut.
Rush
"Hurry," he demands, a hushed whisper against her ear as he tugs forcefully on the chain straps of her top.
She grins though, a slow and wicked grin. Her fingers are languid as they tuck his tangled hair behind the almost pointy tips of his ears. "What's the rush?" she lazily asks, as if she has all the time in the world.
But then she still believes they do.
"The rush is this," he snarls and takes one of her idle hands. He presses it to the bulge under his jeans, and she laughs at the heat and the steady hum of blood as it grows from her touch.
He isn't amused, but she's still laughing as she rips his shirt off. He's tugging and pulling, he can't stand the restraints their clothes are turning into. He gets like this sometimes; desperate, demanding, as if he's dying for her.
There is no greater high, and she's known many different kinds. None of them come close, and now she's feeling her own rush. She doesn't laugh anymore, now she's moaning with delight as he bites on the skin right above the leather covering her left breast; right where her heart's starting to finally speed up.
It's always hard, the pressure of his teeth; he never gives her human love bites, they don't leave any marks behind. He likes to see her marked.
She tells that little human voice still remaining in the back of her mind that those little bruises like teeth are more meaningful than some cheap band around a finger on her left hand.
He doesn't bite any other girl the way he bites her. He bites her to bruise the skin; any other girl and he's biting to break the bone.
"Tell me you want me," he barks like a command, but the fire in his eyes wants more fuel. He never can say those three words she keeps trying to coax out of him, but in moments like these she knows he loves her all the same.
"I want you," she oblidges, all too eager to see that fire grow brighter and wilder. She sometimes wishes he was a little wilder; she can't quite wrap her mind around him. She loves him for it. She knows him better than the others, and still she doesn't know him at all.
He drives her mad like that. He keeps all these little secrets to himself, and she hates it; but he's her mystery of the universe that she can't help but feel a thrill over solving the tiniest little clue.
She's got so many pieces of his puzzle, but she doesn't know if she'll ever have them all.
It should hurt her, it should confuse her; some days it does. But he's tearing off her clothes and biting to bruise her skin and tugging her closer like a lifeline. She can't feel anything but vital. She's vital, and that's enough to keep her happy.
Nobody else can make him rush.