Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs into my temple. “I thought so since they gave me that first picture of you. You came walking down the aisle, and I was afraid to look. I hadn’t even smelled you yet, and I already couldn’t stop myself from staring.”

            A stray notion crosses my mind, sweet and terrifying and utterly unlike me: I wish I was your mate. I know better than to say it. I know better than to think it. Instead I feel his large hand close around my nape. “I really want you to feed, Misery.”

            Sinking my teeth into him is becoming second nature, his flavor lovely and familiar. I don’t let myself wonder how I’ll go back to chilly bags. I just take deep, blissful gulps, and when I hear his drawn out, vibrating moan, when his hand drags my wrist to his cock and closes my fingers around it, I’m happy and pliant and eager to please.

            He is hard, but also soft, and doesn’t want much. He guides my hand up and down once, once more, and beyond that, he has no instructions for me. My touch appears to be enough, just like the rest of me.

            “I’m going to come really fast,” he puffs out.

            I let go of his vein with a wet pop. “You don’t have to.”

            He laughs, rocking into my fist. “Not much of a choice.” He tightens my grip, giving himself the pressure he’s craving. “And then I’ll show you what you do to me.”

            Whatever he needs, I want the same. One of his thighs wedges between mine, and I rub myself against it, vaguely embarrassed at the lewd, rhythmic sounds the contact makes, at the mess I’m making on him. But it feels good, too good to stop and good enough to forget, and then even better when his hand kneads my breasts, moves to the small of my back to cant my hips, positioning me so that yes—there, “There.” I hum the word into his neck, around mouthfuls of blood. I’m shameless and dizzy and briefly happy, grinding and searching for pleasure like it’s something he has in store for me—not if, just when. I take one last drag, and swallow, and then ask, “Is this good?”

            Lowe’s eyes stare unseeing into mine, and the fact that he seems too awestruck to be able to speak, the choppy, uncoordinated way he tries to nod his pleasure, that’s what pushes me over.

            I let out a low, resonant whimper, and my orgasm spreads like a wave of heat. My breaths shorten, my vision narrows, and then I’m shuddering all over Lowe’s thigh, rolling against him like a wild creature. I forget about what I was doing for him, the rhythm I was keeping, the twisty, lingering touch he enjoys. But even then, just seeing and hearing my pleasure seems to do it for him.

            His arms tighten around me. His cock becomes harder. His mouth against mine chants a string of obscene, pleading things about how much he wanted this, how beautiful I am, how he’ll always think of me when he does this from now on, till the day he dies. His semen is hot on my fingers, on my belly. The sounds in his throat belong to something that lives in the underbrush of the forest, someone lost to rational thought.

            It’s beautiful, I think. Not just the pleasure, but sharing it with someone else, someone I care about and maybe love a little bit, as much as I’m able.

            And then the things he’s saying change. Unlike my orgasm, which bloomed and exploded and ebbed, his lasts. Crests. And Lowe shivers and pants and groans through it before he asks me, “You want to know?”

            I nod, still out of breath. His hand comes down to guide mine lower on his cock, until we reach the base.

            “Shit.”

            His cheeks are flushed, head tilted back. I don’t immediately understand, not until his soft skin changes. Something inflates under my palm. Lowe’s hand closes around mine, pressing it there, circling the swelling protuberance like all he wants is for it to be enclosed, held within something. It grows larger, and Lowe’s stifled groans grow louder, and—

            “Misery.”

            He’s saying my name like a prayer. Like I’m the one thing standing between him and heaven on Earth. And that’s when I understand what he meant.

            Sexually, he and I might not be fully compatible.





CHAPTER 23




                             She makes him laugh. It’s no small gift.





The problem of using a gift as an excuse to visit Governor Davenport is that we cannot show up empty-handed. It takes one hour in Human territory, three different antiques stores, and a whole lot of bickering before Lowe and I find a present we both consider appropriate. He nixes my choice of a vintage bicycle pump (“That’s a hookah, Misery.”). I veto his ceramic vase (“Someone’s grandpa’s in there, Lowe.”). We insult each other’s taste, first covertly, then passive-aggressively, then with unabashed contempt. When I’m about to suggest that we fight it out in the parking lot and see how well his claws hold up against my fangs, he has a momentous realization and asks, “Do you even like the governor?”