Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            I may know nothing about Were biology, but I’m not stupid, or naive. “Yes.”

            “Say it.”

            This is simultaneously mortifying and the most erotic experience of my entire life. “To keep it inside.”

            His hand slides underneath my shirt, gently stroking the underside of my breast. “Keep what inside, sweetheart?”

            I close my eyes. My heart beats a pounding, sluggish rhythm into every inch of my skin. “Your come.”

            His big body shudders for a moment. Then rewards me with a nibble on the tip of my ear. “You’d be okay with that?”

            I nod. He groans.

            “I’m not sure I’d be willing to risk hurting you.”

            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—I really want 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 sex his people have and the sex of my people 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 I feel it, 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—his knot—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. We fit. The biological compatibility Lowe told me about, the one between mates . . . 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 just never stop. “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.”