She rushes to help, one hand stroking my cock while the other remains planted at the base of my neck. She doesn’t want me to stop. I don’t want to deny my bloodbag nourishment.
That’s one of the guidelines. I lock eyes with her, noticing the usual bashfulness drifting away with every stroke of my tongue—it matches her bucking hips.Nourish your bloodbag. I’m doing just that. It makes sense now.
Reasons pile upon excuses that grow into a magnificent mountain in my head. Already, I can feel the judgment. It comes from outside as much as it does inside. I push it away. I let it swell. Then, I bury it as deep into the dungeon that resides in me as I possibly can.
It doesn’t matter.
Amber is my bloodbag.
And I’m her vampire.
Desire thickens between us as she hikes up her skirt. She tugs her blouse open, strings tickling her flesh and resting like elegant lines drawn by an artist on fine parchment. She rolls her hips forward and rubs her pussy against my shaft, drawing out the strokes, soaking me with her arousal and every feeling that challenges her.
She’s gorgeous when she chases after her own pleasure.
A curious smile breaks over my lips as I grab her hips and lean back. She lands on top of me with a soft squeak, blush blooming on her cheeks as she bows her head and nips her lower lip. She lifts her hips and tentatively positions the head of my cock at her entrance.
My fingers dig into her hips. “Sit, little viper.”
The shudder that rips through her prompts her to descend. She encompasses every inch of me in a swift motion, the union shocking her mouth into a perfect oval. Her brows knot up while she chokes on a cry, stuck in a lustful limbo as I keep her hips still.
Patches of red dance over her forehead. She grabs my hands, huffing as she whispers, “Let me ride.”
“Be good first.”
“But I—”
I reach for her throat. It’s a gentle movement, hardly quick at all, yet it silences her as effectively as if I had dashed instead. Her eyes flicker for a second, threatening to disappear. I’ve got her right where I want her.
Surely this is normalsomewherein the universe. Have we stepped into an alternative dimension? Perhaps her suite is located on a fault line—supernatural activity is always far more intense in such places. This couch seems to be where we end up doing this.
Thatmustbe the most reasonable answer. Because loving her isn’t an option. Hating her doesn’t seem to stop my cock from stiffening in her presence. Arguing with her just makes me want to fuck her into submission.
I apply slight pressure to her throat and growl, “Ride.”
Her hips buck instantly, causing her breasts to bounce. She’s completely lost to the sensation of my fingers around her throat while she clutches my dress shirt. I can hear the fabric stretching wherever her nails dig. The perfect oval shape disappears, favored by rouge-tinted plump lips traced by her tongue. The sight is intoxicating.
Much like her.
Much like the way we connect.
Frustration inspires me to squeeze her throat a little tighter. She croaks while her eyelids bat rapidly, hips rushing to catch up with the sensations pouring from deep within. She’s been hiding so much. But right now, she’s an open book, revealing secrets that I could have only hoped to discover when I had initially interrogated her.
Warmth drifts into my core. It’s from her. It feels like a welcoming hearth, a kaleidoscope interrupting the orange and yellow hues, turning them into teal and pink, peacock green. The captivating sensation sucks me under, encouraging my abandon—of every ounce of control I’ve fought to keep.
But it’s not political power I’m relinquishing. It’s the vital domination of my day-to-day. It’s the way I obsess over guidelines and expectations, the interrogating stares of my kingdom and those visiting, and the awful voice in the back of my mind that insists I’m doing something wrong.
How can I possibly be doing anything wrong when it feels so goddamn good?
Amber grabs my collar while clasping her lips over mine. Her breasts plump between us as I release her throat and caress the small of her back, soliciting her hips to work even harder. I meet her eager thrusts with vigorous pumps, ecstasy waiting just around the corner for us both.
She moans into each kiss with short, desperate huffs of surrender. She squeals and then goes rigid, shivering violently as I pierce her, holding my rhythm steady as she erupts. Watching her come undone like this can’t possibly compare to anything else. It’s not until she’s convulsing that I let myself go. I unload inside her, clutching her tightly to my chest, nearly crushing her with the weight of our mutual explosion.
She releases a high-pitched sigh of defeat and then slumps into my arms, struggling to breathe. I sense her weakness and then kick myself, managing to unwind our bodies gently enough not to disturb her position as I carry her with me to the miniature fridge kept near the suite door. Cranberry juice a-plenty sits in the inner door. I grab two and then swipe a turkey sandwich as well.
It’s not grilled cheese with pickles, but it’ll do in a pinch.
Once I have her settled on the couch, I fix her clothes. I collect a hand towel from the bathroom to wipe between her legs. I caress her chin, inviting her lazy gaze, heartbroken by the sight of her so frail, vulnerable, and exposed.