Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            A second later, my fangs sink into the vein at the base of his neck.

            Two seconds later, the door to the office opens.





CHAPTER 17




                             The past year notwithstanding, he was always comfortable with sex and everything that came with it. He knew what he liked, and he knew how to get it. He was content.

                Now he can’t remember what satisfaction felt like.





It’s surprising how smoothly it all goes, especially considering how new we both are at this.

            There’s Lowe, who cannot possibly have a clue of what to expect. There’s me, a notoriously bad Vampyre. And then there are some very shitty circumstances. Like how mauled we’re about to get.

            And yet, even without knowing what to do, I know exactly what to do. I know to draw the tip of my nose across the base of his throat to find the perfect spot. I know to stop where his blood smells the sweetest and his skin forms the thinnest veil. I know to press my lips to his flesh in a brief, indulgent moment of silent gratitude. Above all, I know without any trace of doubt, or hesitation, or fear, to bite. My canines might be unused, but they are plenty sharp, guided by instinct if not experience. And after a brief, suspended moment of screaming disorientation, Lowe’s blood fills my mouth.

            It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. And not because I’ve only ever fed from chilly, refrigerated bags, and in comparison, this feels scorching as fire. I think it has to do with the fact that . . .

            The fact that this is Lowe. And his blood tastes like blood, yes, but it’s also spicy, coppery, a thrill on the back of my tongue. His blood tastes like his scent, and his smiles, and his hands lingering on my skin. Like the serious way he stares into the distance and rubs his jaw when he’s worrying about Ana. His blood is everything that he is, and I’m drinking of it. It’s the most delicious, the most earth-shattering, the most inside-out moment of my entire life.

            And then the first few drops hit my stomach, and everything changes.

            Mere feet from us, things are happening. I hear them distantly, dreamily: gasps; a frantic, hushed conversation that includes words like Lowe, and wife, and feeding; a rushed, panicked apology; a door slamming closed. But all I can think of is . . .

            “Misery,” Lowe grunts.

            Warmth. I’m feverishly, beautifully warm. And empty. And bursting. And dizzy. Liquefying. And I feel like I need, need, need.

            I need more. I need Lowe to be closer.

            “Misery,” he breathes.

            I don’t know when, but my hands have hiked up to his shoulders. I moan into his neck, unable to stop myself. I want to climb under his skin. I want him to slide under mine. I want to give him every last thing he asks for.

            “Fuck.” His breath is shallow against my temple. I think he gets it, though, because he does exactly what I’m unable to beg for: his hand travels down my spine to cup my ass, and he holds me to himself while my legs wrap around him. My breasts are achy and tender, my core throbs, and there’s an alarm in my head telling me that I should stop, that I’m drinking too much. It’s killed into silence the moment Lowe winds his fingers into the thick hair at my nape and orders: “Take more.”

            I moan a blissful hum into his skin. Something wet and eager bursts inside me, spills into my stomach.

            “Misery. Misery.” He scoops my head deeper into his neck. Bucks against me in a way that feels not wholly voluntary. “Take all you need.”

            I cling to him like I’d die if he let go, desperate for friction. My hips grind against his abs, seeking relief, and when the contact feels good, I need more. More blood, more Lowe, more of the stretching, rocking, taut feeling coasting inside me.

            “I’m going to—fuck.” His voice is a thick, urgent rumble against my ear. “Misery, let me—” A stifled, filthy sound comes out of his throat. He’s rock-hard, and when he lifts me higher, fingertips pressed into my ass, trying to thrust against the perfect spot in me, I almost lose contact with his vein. Almost. I let out a plaintive, needy whimper, even as I writhe against his cock.

            “I know,” he murmurs, soothing, commanding. “I know. Be good, I’m going to—”

            The first twitches of pleasure hit me so hard, so sudden, I cannot process them. My back arches, my shoulders shake, my core spasms, and for a long second I’m just there—stretched, untethered—until something clicks and my orgasm explodes inside me, leaving me without breath. The pleasure is sharp, loud, all-consumingly bright. It bursts to everything, and then it doubles, and then it swells again until everything else is gone, and I come, and come, and come, sinking into its tide for seconds, minutes, centuries. Then, slowly, it shrinks to aftershocks pulsing through my body and licking down my spine.