Page 113 of Bride

I wish I could see his face. “You can stop. If it hurts, if it doesn’t work.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You will. I know you will.”

“Or I won’t be able to. Because I want it too much.” His fingers move back down, skimming my underwear, knuckles white against the damp blue cotton. He murmurs something about how slick I am, and when the heel of his palm starts massaging my clit in a slow rhythm I sigh in pleasure and relief.

“I—Ireallywant to.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, and then he shifts behind me. His palm fully covers my hand on the wall.

I’m here. Okay. I’ve got you.

“Let me just— I can’t just fuck you like this.” He pulls my jeans around my knees and crowds me tighter into the wall. “Let me get you there.”

I don’t fully understand what he means, until one of his hands grips my hip bone and the other slips inside my panties, stretching the cotton in a way that feels obscene. He parts me with two of his fingers, and lets out a hushed, reverential groan as he stares at himself touching me under the soft fabric. His heartbeat punches into my back, and when his teeth find my throat and start scraping, then nibbling, then biting just hard enough, when his finger circles my clit just right, that’s when I come.

It’s unexpected, too fast. Barely a climb and I’m already dropping down, gasping for air. But it feels like an interrupted, half thing, and I don’t let myself catch my breath. I reach back, frantically grasping to undo his jeans.

“Quiet,” he orders, pinning my hands to the small of my back. “You need to give me a minute. I’m figuring this out.”

I force myself to relax. It’s obvious that, on average, the sexhispeople have and the sex ofmypeople are different flavors. Just as it’s obvious that he and I inhabit some overlapping space. I would expect nothing less.

“This would be easier if you smelled a little less fuckable,” he says raggedly, but I hear the clinking sound of his belt and then Ifeelit, the head of his cock pressing against the soaked panties that stick to my pussy. I free myself to reach down, stroke his length, and he makes a choked sound. It’s hot and large, but the thing at the base—hisknot—hasn’t swelled yet. Last time it inflated when he came. I want to know if that’s the norm, but asking will send Lowe into another spin of concern, and I don’t need him to worry about me.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, put it in.”

He nods against my temple, breath shallow and quick. He hooks my underwear to the side and pushes his cock inside me, the burning stretch deepening until it cannot go any farther, and whatever it was that I expected from having a man—having Lowe—inside me, this is different.

I inhale abruptly.

He exhales in the same way.

There’s no need for negotiation, no pain, and no struggle. I’m pliant and he’s hard. I’m wet and he’s groaning. Wefit. The biological compatibility Lowe told me about, the one betweenmates... I don’t presume to know what that would be like. All I know is that we feel pretty fucking—

“Perfect,” he murmurs, bottoming out, gripping my waist like he’s trying to collect himself. I know why: this feels exquisite in a sharp, cruel way. Vampyres don’t read minds, but I know what he’s thinking: how easy it would be to live in this forever. To justneverstop. “Don’t move, or I’ll come.” He licks a stripe up the back of my neck. “Shit, I might come anyway. Just from your scent and your little bent neck.”

I might, too. Very soon. Especially as he moves with experimental, shallow thrusts that hiteverywhereinside me. I feel myself tighten in little flutters around him, and he stops. Then he bends over to whisper against my ear: “If you’re about to come, tell me. Because that will makemecome, and I need to pull out or I might hurt you. Okay?” He sounds calm, even when his control is about to snap.

I nod, trying to stave off the surge of pleasure.

“Okay.” He presses another gentle, chaste kiss against my nape, and then draws out. The friction is delicious, and I arch back, making plaintive sounds as only the tip is left inside. When he pushes in again, a little deeper, I whimper. “Too much?”

The only answer I can manage is a squeeze around his cock. His palm slaps against the wall with a curse.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I tell him, barely a whisper.

His “Yeah” is apologetic. “I tried not to.”

I turn my head. He’s hulking, wrapped around me. His cheek is there, stubbly and flushed olive and perfect for me to kiss. “Me, too.” Then I add, smiling, “Not too hard, though.”

I lose track of time when he starts thrusting, and so does he. We move together, sweaty and winded. He stops after a few minutes, totake off the edge, and then again a couple of minutes after that. He pulls out when he needs a break from the stimulation, and I feel empty, shaking with frustrated pleasure, so he slides his fingers inside me, keeping me full as he winds down, hot and hard against my hip. The lights from the street pour in through the windows, and our breathing grows choppy. When I can’t stop myself, when I’m sensitive and swollen and about to shatter so hard that a single thrust is okay to bring me off, I can barely remember to warn him.

“I’m about to—”

I come again, the pleasure curling tight inside me. What happens to Lowe is fuzzy, eclipsed by my own pleasure, but I make out some of it: a sharp grunt; a sudden feeling of emptiness; that part of him swelling hotter and harder against the globes of my ass; then his come, warm and wet, pooling onto the small of my back.

And then we stay like that, breathing together, wiped of thought. He presses his forehead against my shoulder, one hand splayed on my abdomen as if to contain me, and maybe it’s whatever chemicals flood Vampyre brains after sex, but I cannot accept that this is not destined. That we are not meant to be.

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