It is that promise that draws a sharp gasp from Jon, so he has no breath left to moan when Jean-Claude's fangs pierce him. The pain keeps Jon aware of the edges of his body as sensation overflows him in endless waves of satiation, hunger stoking and satisfying hunger. Jon's blood spills hotly, eagerly, endlessly into Jean-Claude mouth as he and the Eye feast on Jon's shaking, overwhelmed body. There is a maddeningly small hint of something strange in Jon's blood, a novel taste for a seasoned gourmand almost like a taunt.

At some point his grip shifts from the couch to Jean-Claude's shoulder, slipping in his own sweat on Jean-Claude's marble skin as he tries to find another anchor. He barely feels his physical orgasm—orgasms. With each one the relief turns swiftly to ache for more and more and Jon writhes in his grip, unconsciously daring Jean-Claude to satisfy himself truly and completely until his limbs fall slack. Jon's voice is continuous and inarticulate, strangled cries and half-words; he can't even get through Jean-Claude's full name.