When he opened the door to his apartment and saw the trail of rose petals leading to the bedroom, he smiled. He suspected Margritte was getting her revenge.
Last week, he'd indulged his sense of romance by sneaking into Margritte's apartment and strewing the bed with red rose petals as a surprise for her. When she got home from work, she'd been startled to see him, but it hadn't taken her long to figure out his plan, not with him holding a bottle of merlot and standing in the middle of her apartment wearing nothing but a naughty grin. They hadn't gotten around to drinking the wine until an hour later; its bouquet had been much improved by the musky taste of Margritte lingering on his tongue.
His smile widened as he remembered how she'd writhed when he tongued her, and how her skin had been as soft as the rose petals tangled in her black hair.
"I'm home," he called. He took off his jacket and hung it up. He was loosening his tie when Margritte sauntered into the living room. He forgot what he was doing and gaped at her, his fingers still hooked under his tie.
"Hello, lover."
She paused, one eyebrow raised and an amused expression on her face, to let him absorb the full effect.
Her striking beauty always stunned him. She was a tall, lean woman with fierce black eyes and a cascade of black hair that tumbled down to her hipbones. He ran a hand nervously through his short-cut blond hair when he saw what she was wearing. It was lingerie, he thought--had to be, given the amount of flesh it was covering. Or not covering.
She wore knee-high black leather boots and a shiny black vinyl corset that cinched her waist so tightly that he was amazed she could stand. It didn't cover her pale breasts, merely pushed them up and held them on display. Her nipples were dark red berries, and his mouth watered at the sight of them.
She wore no underwear, but black garters stretched down the cool length of her thighs and clasped thigh-high black fishnets that bracketed the nest of her neatly trimmed curly black pubic hair. Her clit peeked out like a pink rosebud.
In one hand, she held a long-stemmed white rose. Seeing his eyes on it, she lifted the rose and brushed its head against her nipples. They hardened in response to the light, fluttering touch of the petals.
"Since you like roses...." she said. She paused. "You do like roses, don't you?"
"Uh, yeah. Yes," he agreed, his eyes riveted to her breasts. "Absolutely."
"Good," she said, twining her fingers around the rose stem. "Then you'll like this."
She stalked up to him. The high-heeled thigh-high black boots she wore gave her stride a predator's grace. Her heels crushed rose petals with every step she took, surrounding her in a heavy cloud of fragrance.
When she stood in front of him, she reached up to cup his face with her hand. The petals of the rose she held caressed his cheek. Its stem pressed into his skin. Beneath the smell of the flower, he detected Margritte's scent.
She pulled her hand back from his face, leaving the lingering feel of rose petals and the ghost of her scent. He felt something wet on his skin. When he touched his fingers to the spot, they came back with a little smear of blood on them. He'd been so entranced by Margritte that he hadn't even felt the thorn scratch him.
"Come on," she said, hooking her finger through his tie and using it to lead him into his bedroom. With each step, the aroma of bruised roses grew stronger.
When they reached the bedroom, she released his tie and took a step back, watching his face for his reaction.
He used the respite to see what she'd done to the room. Flickering white candles illuminated the bed. He had covered her bed in red rose petals. She had covered his in white roses. He leaned over and tentatively patted the bed. The blooms were a springy mound beneath his palm. He pressed down on them and then jerked his hand back with a startled cry of pain. Blood welled from a puncture wound on his finger. Betrayed, he stared at the rose-blanketed bed. This time he saw the thorns peeking through the leaves.
"Oh, you hurt yourself!" Margritte said, half-crooning. She stepped closer to him. "Let me make that better."
He didn't resist when she took his hand. He expected her to plant a little kiss on the wound.
Instead, he was startled by her sliding his finger into her mouth. The wet softness of her mouth slid over his skin. He drew in his breath sharply. Her teeth grazed his knuckles. She watched his face with half-lidded eyes as she suckled on his finger. He felt the heat of his blood rushing to his groin.
She lifted her head and slid her mouth off him with a moist sucking sound.
"Now it'll be okay," she said. She favored him with a sweet smile that hinted at mockery.
In the high-heeled boots, she was slightly taller than him. He had to look up to meet her eyes. It made him feel strangely vulnerable, and his prick stirred in his pants.
She bared her teeth in a smirk that gave him goose bumps. She didn't allow him much time to worry, though; she shifted to cup his crotch with her hand. His breath hissed out through gritted teeth.
She drew her hand upward, barely grazing his stiffening cock, and ran her fingernails up his chest. He felt the rasp of her nails through his shirt. Near his collar, she knotted her fists in the fabric and ripped the shirt open. Buttons popped off and rolled across the floor.
"Margritte--!"
In one quick movement, she stepped close enough to him that he felt her heat prickling against his skin, paused just long enough to let him sway toward her, and pushed him onto the bed. Pinpricks of pain made him freeze, afraid to move.
A wicked, predatory grin on her face, she straddled him.
The knee-high boots she wore protected her skin from the thorns, he thought indignantly. That wasn't fair. Then she shifted back to survey him, and he saw that though the boots had turned back most of the thorns, a few had bit deep into her flesh. Small rivulets of dark blood ran down the sides of her boots where the thorns had penetrated through.
His prick strained against the fabric of his pants. He reached to unzip himself, but she caught his hands and pinned them above his head. Thorns punctured the backs of his hands and scratched along his arms. He inhaled sharply.
"Relax," she whispered, as she leaned over him.
She rocked her body against him, rubbing her sex against the crotch of his pants. Her juices seeped through the fabric. Her heat and wetness teased his prick, which battered its head against the confines of his pants.
Then she lifted herself off of him just enough to unzip his pants and take him into her hands, and he stopped thinking about anything but her. She hovered above him, just out of reach. Her nails traced the line of his shaft, and he gasped and arched up. Thorns bit into his back.
"I don't think--" he said, struggling to sit up.
"That's right," she told him. "Don't think."
She placed her hands on his chest, her sharp nails pressing against his nipples, and thrust him back down onto the thorns.
He yelped and froze.
"Oh, no, no, no," she said, digging her nails into him until they left bloody half-moons in his flesh. "That won't do at all."
She lowered herself onto him, tightening around him like a fist. He groaned. He tried not to move, but then she pulsed her internal muscles, and he couldn't help thrusting up against her.
"That's right," she said, urging him on with her hips. "Move."
He moved. He thrust his hips up, bucking against her weight. She matched him move for move. The thorns dug into his back, sharp needles that penetrated him as he penetrated her. His back grew wet from the blood running down the silk sheets. He felt dizzy, and his cock was painfully hard. Every thrust was exquisite. It felt so good it nearly hurt. He didn't think he'd last long, but each time he came close to the brink, she shifted her weight to twist the thorns deeper into him.
He became trapped in sensation, unable to finish, unable to stop, unable to do anything but what she wanted him to. Time meant nothing except the flickering of the candles as they burned lower, the beads of sweat and blood that slid between their bodies to dampen the sheets and stain the white roses, the deepening intensity of her expression, and the increased raggedness of her breathing.
She arched her back above him. Her hair fell back, and he felt it caressing the inside of his thighs as she slid up and down his shaft. With one hand she fondled her clit, and with the other, she reached behind her and found his balls. He almost came the instant her nails touched him. Her breath sped up, and so did his. The feelings were too strong: her slick, pulsing heat surrounding his prick; her hand caressing his balls; and the thorns sending sharp spikes of sensation shooting through his body, as if they were touching more than his back.
"Ohhh," she gasped. "Yes, oh yesss...."
The sound of her orgasm allowed him to go over the edge. Thorns dug into his flesh, but they were only goads driving him forward. He cried wordlessly when he came.
After he remembered how to speak, he said, "Margritte, that. . .that was amazing. I don't know what we can do to top that."
Temporarily sated, she smiled lazily and kissed him. "Don't worry," she said. "I have some ideas."
He swallowed hard.
Originally published October 2006 - "Supernatural"