Page 6 of Hunting His Vampire Mate

“Right.” I dropped my eyes, working on keeping my breathing steady as I busied myself with taking my laptop out of its carrying case.

With that, he ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

I heard the dull hum of the shower a moment later. When Michael came out, ten minutes later, his hair was still faintly damp, and he was dressed in clean clothes. He yanked his shoes on and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back bright and early.” He paused, turning to glance back at me. “Or maybe in a couple hours.”

Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded.

A shadow crossed his face as his gaze met mine. “Danny, look. I—if—”

He broke off, grimacing. And looking mighty guilty, too. Which he probably didn’t have any right to, did he?

Sure, he was being an ass, but I was being a coward by not saying anything.

“Go,” I told him firmly. “Have fun.”

Once he finally left, I slid the latch shut behind him. Not that the flimsy metal lock would do much to protect against most of the monsters that might try to come through the door.

I sank onto the bed, feeling miserable.

I knew I should get up and draw the warding sigils with the chalk I kept in the front pocket of my laptop bag. I knew I should draw the spirit traps, too. But I couldn’t make myself move. I realized, after several minutes of sitting there, staring at the door, and feeling sick to my stomach, that I was waiting for Michael to come back through. To tell me he’d changed his mind.

There was a nearly full bottle of tequila in my backpack. Maybe I ought to break into it. Tonight felt like one of the nights where I wanted to get so drunk I couldn’t feel my face anymore.

Maybe I’d get myself prepped first. I’d taken to doing that almost every day, after researching best practices for how to be a good bottom. I had gathered enough over the years to know that Michael was mostly a top in his sexual encounters, and I figured it made sense to be ready for that in case I ever got brave enough to really try to take us into that territory. And maybe I’d even do some more experimentation with the small dildo I had purchased about a dozen monsters ago, which was wrapped in a tube sock in the bottom of my backpack.

I’d already experimented, pretty much every chance I got. I figured it made sense to get used to it so that it wouldn’t suck so much if sex ever did happen between us. And it wasn’t like the sensation was awful or anything. It was mostly just strange. But it was becoming less so with each attempt. It wasn’t necessarily bad, once I got used to it. And, anyway, from a purely mechanical perspective, I didn’t even really need to be all that into it, if Michael was topping, right? I had watched enough gay porn recently to know the basic sexual positions.

In truth, watching the porn hadn’t done a whole lot for me, but imagining that Michael was the one entering me? That level of closeness with him? I could picture the way he’d hold me with his strong arms, his breath hot on the back of my neck as he found his pleasure inside of me.

I had orgasmed more than once during my dildo experimentation from entertaining that particular fantasy. The idea of anyone else fucking me was obscene. Unimaginable. But Michael doing it?

It got me going every time.

And thatdefinitelywasn’t even remotely heterosexual, was it?

So maybe I wasn’t really straight at all?

Although romantic inclination and sexuality weren’t always the same thing, in my case, the only other explanation which fitwas that I was at least some shade of demi-sexual. According to my research, that meant I was technically on the asexual spectrum and needed to form a strong emotional bond in order to feel sexual attraction to someone. Since my life hadn’t been especially conductive to sexual or romantic experimentation, that was a very strong maybe. After all, almost all of my limited sexual encounters so far had been in the confines of my short-lived romantic relationship with a girl named Becca when I was nineteen. And I had developed an emotional connection with her before sex had happened. And the sex was very… okay. I enjoyed myself plenty, but it hadn’t been mind-blowing or anything.

So… maybe?

But what if that ended up being wrong? How would I know for sure?

The only way to be certain would be to try having sex with Michael, right?

But what if I just couldn’t make myself do it, when the time came? What if I ruined everything by trying? And worst of all: what if I hurt him?

But, then again, even if sex with Michael was awful at first, a little pain and discomfort still would’ve been better than watching him go out and hook up with a bunch of random strangers. It would have been better than being left behind night after night, wondering if this was the time he’d finally end up meeting someone he felt a connection with, if this was the moment that I’d later look back on as the beginning of the end.

Wouldn’t it?

“Shit,” I whispered, uncapping the bottle of tequila and taking a swig that burned all the way down my throat. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

CHAPTER TWO || MICHAEL

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

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