Page 59 of Bite
James.
I inhale deeply, breathing in that scent like it’s mine to keep, allowing myself to just sink into it for a moment.
When I finally blink my eyes open, reality crashes down. The bed is empty except for me and Ozzy. There’s no large masculine figure lying beside me, no piercing blue eyes watching. No evidence he’s even been here except for the way his scent lingers, curling around me like smoke and whispered fragments of memory.
I don’t recall when James left, or how Ozzy got back into the room, or even how and when I fell asleep. All I remember ishim. His hands on my body, his fangs in my flesh, his voice rumbling in my ear like gravel and sin.
I shift my weight, sucking in a breath through my teeth at the twinge of pain the movement elicits. Every muscle in my body is sore, but in thebestway, a reminder of how completely James wrecked me last night. It was both everything and nothing like I imagined– filthy and raw, erotic and primal. Heat pools low in my belly at the thought, and then, just as quickly, unease slithers in.
I gave in too easily. Enjoyed it too much. Indulged in the fantasy as if it could actually become my new reality.
I press my palms to my face, trying to scrub away the memory, but it floods back anyway– the way he manhandled my body, the sharp sting of his bites, the way I surrendered completely and shamelessly begged for more.
I swore I wouldn’t lose myself in this world, but that’s exactly what’s happening. I’m slowly losing touch with reality while cushioned in the ease of luxury living, chasing the thrill of danger, experiencing the kind of pleasure that I never knew could exist outside of fiction. I’m slowly losing myself to this place; tohim. And it terrifies me.
I throw the covers off with a frustrated groan, sore muscles protesting as I push myself upright. The room spins, bright spots pulsing at the edges of my vision. Cool air skims over my bare skin, and that’s when I realize I’m completely naked.
When did that happen?
My cheeks flame even though there’s no one here to see me– which is ridiculous considering an entire room of people got an eyeful last night. But I was a different person then. I wasMarilyn. Today, I’m back to being Taylor, and Taylor’s got a whole lot more shame.
Forcing my body to move, I crawl out of bed, muscles burning under the effort. Hamstrings, glutes, even the shallow flexors in my hip joints– all shredded by hours of rough handling. The ache between my legs is raw and tender, every tinymovement a reminder of the way I was both worshipped and ruined by a vampire king.
I try to ignore the pain as I pad across the floor to the en-suite bathroom. The mirror waits in judgment, and I almost don’t look.Almost.
Then I do, and my reflection doesn’t lie.
Bruises bloom around my hips in deep blues and purples, fingerprints branded into my flesh. Bite marks dot the hollow of my neck and the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My hair’s a disaster, the low bun I styled last night half undone and drooping onto my shoulder. I look absolutely wrecked. Thoroughly claimed.Owned.
Panic flares brightly in my chest at the realization that the game has now changed. Before, it was all nervous anticipation, the thrill of chasing the unknown. Now, I know exactly what it feels like to belong to James Devereaux– and how terrifyingly easy it is to get lost in that feeling.
I tear my gaze away from the mirror and twist the shower on, stepping under the spray before I can think too hard about it and spiral even further. Hot water needles over my skin, coaxing the ache from my muscles, but it does nothing to wash away the unease curling in my gut.
By the time I step out, I feel no steadier. I towel off, then snatch up the little tube of Rapi-Gen cream from the counter, dabbing it carefully over each bite mark on my skin. I know I should be grateful for how fast it works, but the way the marks vanish within hours almost makes me feel like I imagined them.
And maybe that’s worse.
Back in the bedroom, I tug on black tights and a soft gray sweater dress, covering up the bruises and scraping myself into some version of decency. My phone waits on the nightstand, screen dark. When I tap it awake, the clock indicates it’s already afternoon.
Apparently last night’s activities required a half day of recovery.
Opening up my contact list, I scroll to Bex’s name, thumb hovering.
I need to hear her voice. It’s the only thing that’ll ground me, remind me of who I really am. But if I call… she’llknow. She’ll hear how rattled I am in a single word and start demanding answers I’m not prepared to give.
This isn’t a conversation I can have over the phone, so I settle for a text instead.
Hey stranger, what are you up to today? I’ve got a ridiculously big allowance and need someone to help me spend it.
I tack on a smiley face I don’t feel and hit send, holding my breath.
Her response flashes across the screen almost instantly.
Bex
Hell yes! Buy me pretty things, sugar mama. Where are we meeting?
Relief unwinds a tight knot in my chest as I tap out a reply.
