The past year notwithstanding, he was always comfortable with sex and everything that came with it. He knew what he liked, and he knew how to get it. He was content.
Now he can’t remember what satisfaction felt like.
It’s surprising how smoothly it all goes, especially considering how new we both are at this.
There’s Lowe, who cannot possibly have a clue of what to expect. There’s me, a notoriously bad Vampyre. And then there are some very shitty circumstances. Like how mauled we’re about to get.
And yet, even without knowing what to do, I know exactly what to do. I know to draw the tip of my nose across the base of his throat to find the perfect spot. I know to stop where his blood smells the sweetest and his skin forms the thinnest veil. I know to press my lips to his flesh in a brief, indulgent moment of silent gratitude. Above all, I know without any trace of doubt, or hesitation, or fear, to bite. My canines might be unused, but they are plenty sharp, guided by instinct if not experience. And after a brief, suspended moment of screaming disorientation, Lowe’s blood fills my mouth.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. And not because I’ve only ever fed from chilly, refrigerated bags, and in comparison, this feels scorching as fire. I think it has to do with the fact that . . .
The fact that this is Lowe. And his blood tastes like blood, yes, but it’s also spicy, coppery, a thrill on the back of my tongue. His blood tastes like his scent, and his smiles, and his hands lingering on my skin. Like the serious way he stares into the distance and rubs his jaw when he’s worrying about Ana. His blood is everything that he is, and I’m drinking of it. It’s the most delicious, the most earth-shattering, the most inside-out moment of my entire life.
And then the first few drops hit my stomach, and everything changes.
Mere feet from us, things are happening. I hear them distantly, dreamily: gasps; a frantic, hushed conversation that includes words like Lowe, and wife, and feeding; a rushed, panicked apology; a door slamming closed. But all I can think of is . . .
“Misery,” Lowe grunts.
Warmth. I’m feverishly, beautifully warm. And empty. And bursting. And dizzy. Liquefying. And I feel like I need, need, need.
I need more. I need Lowe to be closer.
“Misery,” he breathes.
I don’t know when, but my hands have hiked up to his shoulders. I moan into his neck, unable to stop myself. I want to climb under his skin. I want him to slide under mine. I want to give him every last thing he asks for.
“Fuck.” His breath is shallow against my temple. I think he gets it, though, because he does exactly what I’m unable to beg for: his hand travels down my spine to cup my ass, and he holds me to himself while my legs wrap around him. My breasts are achy and tender, my core throbs, and there’s an alarm in my head telling me that I should stop, that I’m drinking too much. It’s killed into silence the moment Lowe winds his fingers into the thick hair at my nape and orders: “Take more.”
I moan a blissful hum into his skin. Something wet and eager bursts inside me, spills into my stomach.
“Misery. Misery.” He scoops my head deeper into his neck. Bucks against me in a way that feels not wholly voluntary. “Take all you need.”
I cling to him like I’d die if he let go, desperate for friction. My hips grind against his abs, seeking relief, and when the contact feels good, I need more. More blood, more Lowe, more of the stretching, rocking, taut feeling coasting inside me.
“I’m going to—fuck.” His voice is a thick, urgent rumble against my ear. “Misery, let me—” A stifled, filthy sound comes out of his throat. He’s rock-hard, and when he lifts me higher, fingertips pressed into my ass, trying to thrust against the perfect spot in me, I almost lose contact with his vein. Almost. I let out a plaintive, needy whimper, even as I writhe against his cock.
“I know,” he murmurs, soothing, commanding. “I know. Be good, I’m going to—”
The first twitches of pleasure hit me so hard, so sudden, I cannot process them. My back arches, my shoulders shake, my core spasms, and for a long second I’m just there—stretched, untethered—until something clicks and my orgasm explodes inside me, leaving me without breath. The pleasure is sharp, loud, all-consumingly bright. It bursts to everything, and then it doubles, and then it swells again until everything else is gone, and I come, and come, and come, sinking into its tide for seconds, minutes, centuries. Then, slowly, it shrinks to aftershocks pulsing through my body and licking down my spine.
I’m glad Lowe is pinning me to the fireplace, because I’ve lost control of my limbs. My breath is stymied, and I pant into his still-open vein. I’m—
His vein. His precious, beautiful vein.
I’m not capable of rational thought at the moment, but I lean forward and suck at the wounds I opened, then lick at them like a kitten, rescuing every last green drop. It’s an automatism, something written in my genes, and Lowe seems to enjoy it, too. Intense satisfaction radiates from him. His big hands clutch at my hips. Soft, pleased praises are muttered against my cheekbones.
The blood stops seeping through, his skin sealing shut. I pull back feeling supremely smug, brimming with pride for a job well done. I’m full. Satiated. Happy. I’m strong and warm all over, comfortable in a way I haven’t really experienced before, and it’s all thanks to Lowe, and his powerful blood, the way his heavy breath rolls against my skin—
Oh, God.
Lowe.
“I—” I push against his shoulders, and he doesn’t immediately react. “Let go of me.”
It’s all it takes. He gently lowers me until my feet are on the ground, then tries to take a step back, but I don’t—can’t—let him. I cling to his shirt, following his retreat.
“Misery.”
I’m physically unable to give him up.
“Misery.”
His hoarse voice jerks me out of my trancelike state. I put some air between us, which feels like a supremely bad idea, cold and invasive and all wrong. My hair is wild and the fabric of my dress caught at my waist, but I’m too busy staring at Lowe to do anything about it. His pupils have swallowed the irises. They travel down my legs, mesmerized.
With the distance, the awareness of what just happened slowly trickles into me—then drowns me like a water flood.
Shit. It’s not that I fed from him, even though I did, but also . . . I had no clue that . . . “I am so sorry,” I gasp out, straightening my clothes.
He shakes his head, chest heaving rhythmically up and down. His eyes are different. Not his anymore.
“I’d never . . . from someone. I had no idea it would be . . . Did I hurt you?”
There’s something raptorial about the way he shakes his head. Slow, careful. I take a step back, feeling like I’m being tracked by a much stronger, faster predator.
“Okay.” I lick the corner of my lip. This aftertaste in my mouth is his blood, and there is something deliciously erotic about it—he is alive, breathing in front of me, warm and strong. This living being, this man, this Were, produced plasma and green blood cells and chose to provide me with them.
Life and sustenance.
It’s so intimate. Sexual, but more than that. Not something I could imagine sharing with just anyone, except for . . .
Lowe. Of course.
I look down at my crumpled dress, feeling like a child who just found out that she didn’t really come from the cabbage patch.
“Misery.” I peel my eyes from my feet. Lowe looks disheveled. A little shell-shocked. Confused. Obviously horny. He strokes his erection once over the tented fabric of his pants, staring at my face in that spellbound way. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” I lick my lips, finding more traces of him. “I don’t think so.”
That’s when I hear the steps and remember why I was sucking on his blood a second ago. “They’re coming,” I hiss, hurrying to the computer to disconnect the hardware. In the first lucky break of the evening, the code is done. I unplug everything, making sure to leave nothing behind. Lowe is still standing still, following my every gesture like a wolf about to pounce on a rabbit. When my fingers disappear into my cleavage to hide the USB, his breath hitches.
“Lowe? You know someone’s coming, right?”
“Yeah,” he says simply, and for a moment I think he might be broken. Then I realize—what should we even do? Run? We’ve already been caught. Now it’s all about committing to the show.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Because I didn’t think to, before.
He murmurs, “Come back,” a hand outstretched in my direction. I don’t think he’s okay, but neither am I, so I cross the room.
He hugs me, both arms enveloping my shoulders, my head nestled under his chin. It’s not like before—not in that sexual, feverish way that’s all about heat and shared skin and contact. This hug is all about closeness, and Lowe burying his nose in my hair, and my heartbeat seeking his. We should probably discuss what to do when the next person barges in, come up with an action plan, but all I want is to be here. Cling to him.
“I could fuck you very nicely right now,” he says into my ear. He sounds honest, and a bit resigned. “I almost did.”
“I’m sorry. I never imagined it would lead to . . .”
“I know. I’m just really . . .” His lips move against my forehead, soft and warm. “I’ve never felt like this.”
“Like what?”
“Turned on. Smitten. And . . . and other things.”
I feel the exact same. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “It must be—I’m going to talk to my brother. It might be something I’ve done.” It’s not. It’s just right.
Lowe’s stubble drags against my temple. “Have you had enough?”
“Enough?”
“Blood.”
“Oh. Yes.”
But, I’d like more.
But, May I have more?
I want it. So bad. I’m about to say fuck it and ask for it assertively, like a big girl, when the door opens again. This time, Lowe and I manage to break apart. He steps protectively in front of me, the tenderness between us dissolving.
“I thought my guards were having hallucinations,” Emery says, eyeing us suspiciously. “I must have forgotten to lock this room.” Her gaze lingers on Lowe’s neck—woundless, but faintly bluish-green. As if someone latched on to it and didn’t let go for a long while. “When you mentioned feeding, Lowe, I assumed . . .” Her lips twist into something that resembles disgust.
“You should never. Assume, that is.” Lowe’s voice is cutting.
And then Koen appears behind Emery, leaning against the doorjamb with a shit-eating grin. “I, for one, am glad the kids are having fun.”
“Yeah, well. When you’re done, please come back to the table. We’re waiting for you for dessert.”
“Aunt Emery, they already had dessert.”
Emery makes a revulsed face and brushes past Koen. Lowe doesn’t relax even when she’s gone: his broad shoulders remain tense, gaze fixed on Koen as if he were a threat, someone I should be shielded from, instead of Lowe’s most trusted and valuable ally.
Which, going by his amused smile, Koen knows. “And to think that you’re the most sensible Were I’ve ever met. Look how finding her made you,” he says cryptically. He gives Lowe a fond glance, and then his expression shifts. “I got a phone call. Cal tried to reach you with something important but wasn’t able to. It’s urgent.”
“I left my phone back in my room.”
Koen’s eyebrow lifts. “Yeah. Not sure it would have made a difference if it had been in your pocket.”
Lowe rolls his eyes but eases up a fraction. “What’s going on?”
“He mentioned the possibility of you heading home tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Something about Ana, I think.”
