That's not just a click-bait title. I'm about to share with you a magma-hot sex scene, one of the best I've ever read - even though it doesn't involve any MC and the couple are hetero. But don't worry; this scene is in no way vanilla. The man, Boone, is dead. He's been resurrected as a monster and it sickens him; but his girlfriend isn't bothered by something as unimportant as the lack of a pulse, and she wants him off his mopey ass. You see, Boone's in jail, surrounded by a lynch mob, and he has to break out before the humans finish him. Then they have to save the necropolis of Midian that made Boone what he is. It seems like a tall order, but Boone has plenty of power. He just needs someone with power over him - the merely human Lori - to bring him back to pseudo-life.
This is an excerpt from the novella Cabal, by Clive Barker - for my money, the best erotica writer outside of the erotica genre.
"They have to finish me, Lori. Put me out of my misery."
"I don't want you out of your misery," she said.
"But I do!" he replied, looking up at her for the first time. Seeing his face, she remembered how many had doted on him, and understood why. Pain could have no more persuasive apologists than his bones, his eyes.
"I want out," he said. "Out of this body. Out of this life."
"You can't. Midian needs you. It's being destroyed, Boone."
"Let it go! Let it all go. Midian's just a hole in the ground, full of things that should lie down and be dead. They know that, all of 'em. They just haven't got the balls to do what's right."
"Nothing's right," she found herself saying (how far she'd come to this bleak relativity), "except what you feel and know."
His small fury abated. The sadness that replaced it was more profound than ever.
"I feel dead," he said. "I know nothing."
"That's not true," she replied, taking the first steps toward him she'd taken since entering the cell. He flinched as if he expected her to strike him.
"You know me. You feel me."
She took hold of his arm and pulled it up toward her. He didn't have time to make a fist. She laid his palm on her stomach.
"You think you disgust me, Boone? You think you horrify me? You don't."
She drew his hand up toward her breasts.
"I still want you, Boone. Midian wants you too, but I want you more. I want you cold, if that's the way you are. I want you dead, if that's the way you are. And I'll come to you if you won't come to me. I'll let them shoot me down."
"No," he said.
Her grip on his hand was light now. He could have slipped it, but he chose to leave his touch upon her, with only the thin fabric of her blouse intervening. She wished she could dissolve it at will, have his hand stroking the skin between her breasts.
"They're going to come for us sooner or later," she said.
Nor was she bluffing. There were voices from outside. A lynch mob gathering. Maybe the monsters were forever. But so were their persecutors.
"They'll destroy us both, Boone. You for what you are. Me for loving you. And I'll never hold you again. I don't want that, Boone. I don't want us dust in the same wind. I want us flesh."
Her tongue had outstripped her intention. She hadn't meant to say it so plainly. But it was said now, and true. She wasn't ashamed of it.
"I won't let you deny me, Boone," she told him. The words were their own engine. They drove her hand to Boone's cold scalp. She snatched a fist of his thick black hair.
He didn't resist her. Instead the hand on her chest closed on the blouse, and he went down onto his knees in front of her, pressing his face to her crotch, licking at it as if to tongue her clean of clothes and enter her with spit and spirit all in one.
She was wet beneath the fabric. He smelled her heat for him. Knew what she's said was no lie. He kissed her cunt, or the cloth that hid her cunt, over and over and over.
"Forgive yourself, Boone," she said. He nodded.
She took tighter hold on his hair, and pulled him away from the bliss of her scent.
"Say it," she told him. "Say you forgive yourself."
He looked up from his pleasure, and she could see before he spoke the weight of shame had gone from his face. Behind his sudden smile she met the monster's eyes, dark, and darkening still as he delved for it. The look made her ache.
"Please..." she murmured, "love me."
He pulled at her blouse. It tore. His hand went through the gap in one smooth motion, and beneath her bra to her breast. This was madness, of course. The mob would be upon them if they didn't get out quickly. But then madness had drawn her into this circle of dust and flies in the first place; why be surprised her journey had brought her round to this new insanity? Better this than life without him. Better this than practically anything.
He was getting to his feet, teasing her tit from hiding, putting his cold mouth to her hot nipple, flicking it, licking it, tongue and teeth in perfect play. Death had made a lover of him. Given him knowledge of flesh and how to rouse it, made him easy with the body's mysteries. He was everywhere about her, working his hips against hers in slow grinding circles - trailing his tongue from her breasts to the sweet bowl between her clavicles, and up along the ridge of her throat to her chin, thence to her mouth.
Only once in her life had there been such wrenching hunger in her. In New York, years before, she'd met and fucked with a man whose name she'd never known, but whose hands and lips seemed to know her better than herself.
"Have a drink with me?" she'd said, when they'd unglued themselves.
He'd told her no almost pityingly, as though someone so ignorant of the rules was bound for grief. So she'd watched him dress and leave, angry with herself for asking, and with him for such practiced detachment. But she'd dreamt of him a dozen times in the weeks after, revisiting their squalid moments together, hungry for them again.
She had them here. Boone was the lover of that dark corner, perfected. Cool and feverish, urgent and studied. She knew his name this time, but he was still strange to her. And in the fervor of his possession, and in her heat for him, she felt that other lover, and all the lovers who'd come and gone before him, burned up. It was only their ash in her now, where their tongues and necks and cocks had been, and she had power over them completely.
Boone was unzipping himself. She took his length in her hand. Now it was his turn to sigh as she ran her fingers along the underside of his erection, up from his balls to where the ring of his circumcision scar bore a nugget of tender flesh. She stroked him there, tiny movements to match the measure of his tongue back and forth between her lips. Then, on the same sudden impulse, the teasing time was over. He was lifting her skirt, tearing at her underwear, his fingers going where only hers had been for too long. She pushed him back against the wall, pulled his jeans down to midthigh. Then, one arm hooked around his shoulders, the other hand enjoying the silk of his cock before it was out of sight, she took him inside. He resisted her speed, a delicious war of want which had her at screaming pitch in seconds. She was never so open, nor had ever needed to be. He filled her to overflowing.
Then it really began. After the promises, the proof. Bracing his upper back against the wall he angled himself so as to throw his fuck up into her, her weight its own insistence. She licked his face. He grinned. She spat in it. He laughed and spat back.
"Yes," she said. "Yes. Go on. Yes."
All she could manage was affirmatives. Yes to his spittle, yes to his cock, yes to this life in death, and joy in life and death forever and ever.
His answer was honey-hipped, wordless labor, teeth clenched, brow plowed. The expression on his face made her cunt spasm. To see him shut his eyes against her pleasure, to know that the sight of her bliss took him too close to be countenanced. They had such power each over each. She demanded his motion with motion of her own, one hand gripping the brick beside his head so she could raise herself along his length and then impale herself again. There was no finer hurt. She wished it could never stop.
But there was a voice at the door. She could hear it through her whining head.
It was Narcisse.
"Quickly." Boone heard him too, and the din behind his voice as the lynchers gathered. He matched her new rhythm, up to meet her descent.
"Open your eyes," she said.
He obeyed, grinning at the command. It was too much for him, meeting her eyes. Too much for her, meeting his. The pact struck, they parted till her cunt only sucked at the head of his cock - so slicked it might slip from her - then closed on each other for one final stroke.
The joy of it made her cry out, but he choked her yell with his tongue, sealing their eruption inside their mouths. Not so below. Undammed after months, his come overflowed and ran down her legs, its course colder than his scalp or his kisses.
It was Narcisse who brought them back from their world of two into that of many. The door was now open. He was watching them without embarrassment.
"Finished?" he wanted to know.
Boone wiped his lips back and forth on Lori's, spreading their saliva from cheek to cheek.
"For now," he said, looking only at her.
"So can we get going?" Narcisse said.
"Midian," came the instant reply.