Page 85 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Her skin is warm beneath my touch, the rough line of her jaw giving way to something softer as I lean in and press my lips to the corner of her mouth.

She exhales into me like she’s been holding her breath all day.

Her arm snakes around my waist, strong and sure, and she eases me further toward the edge of the bed until there’s no space left between us. My legs fall open to accommodate her body, instinct more than thought, a wordless plea:closer.

Always closer.

Her lips meet mine again—slow at first, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world. But there’s intent in it too. Purpose. She kisses like she’s tasting something precious, like she doesn’t want to miss a single detail.

And gods, I melt for her.

The tension drains from my limbs, every breath unspooling something tight in my chest. Her fingers press into my side through the fabric of my shirt, not hard, but just enough that I feel her there—anchoring me. My own hand slides into her hair, tangling in the soft strands at the base of her neck. I don't think I could stop kissing her if I tried.

She groans softly into my mouth, and the sound punches straight through me, heat pooling low in my belly. Her presence surrounds me, a wall of warmth and strength and something wild I can’t name.

And still—beneath all that want, all that dizzy heat—there’s something else, tight and trembling under my skin.

Hunger.

Not for blood. Not yet.

And when I pull back, just enough to search her face, I see it mirrored there—her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint.

She wants this too.

“You’ll stop me if—”

“I’ll be fine, Mouse.” Her lips twitch with the nickname, but her voice is all conviction. “I trust you.”

It undoes something in me.

Carefully, reverently, I lean in again. My arms loop her neck, tugging her closer,closer. My lips brush her throat—barely there, like a prayer. Her breath catches.

I let them linger.

The skin there is warm, impossibly soft, and when I press a featherlight kiss to the hollow just beneath her jaw, she exhales sharply—like I’ve knocked the air from her lungs with nothing but a touch. Emboldened, I do it again. Slower this time. Then trail another kiss just below it, letting my lips part slightly against her pulse.

She tastes like salt and skin and something heady I can't quite name. And I shouldn't notice. Feeding is supposed to be just blood. Just survival.

But gods, I feel it low in my belly, a flicker of heat sparking where hunger and want blur together.

Her breath ghosts against my temple, uneven now, and the sound only makes it worse. She shifts beneath my touch, barely perceptible, like she’s trying not to move. Not to press herself into me.

It’s never felt like this before. Not with any human I’ve fed from. Not close. There was no anticipation, no ache that lived beneath the hunger like this sharp, sweet need.

I’m not just craving her blood—I’m craving her.Allof her.

My fangs ache, lengthening in response to the nearness of her blood, and I have to shut my eyes, center myself. One more second, just one more breath—

Not too deep. Not too fast.

I can’t lose myself in it. Not with her.

I part my lips, letting them linger against her skin. Then, with a whisper of hesitation, I sink my fangs in.

She gasps.

Not in pain—but insurprise. Her hands curl around my arms, anchoring me. And gods, her blood—warm, rich, unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. The animal blood, the scraps, the desperate half-starvings—they were ashes compared to this.

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