Page 52 of Mongrel
“I’m sure.” I meet his gaze, and for once, the words come easy. “I’ve wanted you since that first night, when you wouldn’t call meMongrel, then more when I saw how loving you were with your family, and more still when you invented trained Beans tricks to make sad children happy. I wanted you when you made me feel safe among other vampires and when you told me the truths you’d rather keep hidden. I especially wanted you when you kissed me and gave me your blood. So please don’t doubt me when I say I want you now.”
“Andras,” he breathes my name on a sigh, studying me with an intensity that steals my breath. “Kiss me.”
I do. Immediately and with enthusiasm. He parts his legs and wraps them around my hips, making it simple to push him farther onto the bed. I drop my weight against his chest and moan. How can another person feel this good? Our connection is staggering in its immensity. I adore him and want only to worship him, to prove myself worthy of his passion.
In a burst of strength and speed, Bowie flips us over and pins me to the mattress with no more than a look. “Stay.” He climbs off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
Blood rushes from my brain to my cock at the command, warm and tingling with need. The urge to touch myself blooms, but I wait.
Anticipation is its own reward.
Bowie goes to the door and turns the lock I hadn’t realized was there, then opens the top dresser drawer at the foot of the bed. He plucks from it a glass jar and tosses the little bottle next to me—oil. Its presence sends a barreling wave of expectation swelling to consume me. I want everything he’ll let me have, starting with his gaze.
One button at a time, Bowie takes off his coat while watching me, his eyes dark and hungry.
I’m dizzy with desire, admiring him as he undresses, layer after layer, until he’s revealing his beautiful creamy skin. Peaked roseate nipples taunt me from out of my reach. My mouth yearns for them, watering. I swallow.
“Now you,” says Bowie when he’s gloriously nude. My eyes travel the length of him, lingering on his flushed, swollen cock, already eager for my touch.
I’ve seen him naked, but this is different. He is nakedfor me.
He crawls onto the bed and tugs off one of my leather shoes as I hurry to pull my shirt over my head. My skin tingles as it’s exposed, longing for his. We work in tandem until I’m naked too. Finally, I tug him down on top of me.
If I thought he felt good before, I was mistaken because he feels amazing now. His cool body against my heat, flesh to flesh from toes to lips, his tongue seeking mine.
Groaning, I open for him, suck him into my mouth and savor. Bowie is ravenous, devouring me from mouth to jaw to throat. I wish he’d bite, but he won’t. The scrape of his fangs against the column of my neck has my heart racing. My pulse thumps wildly in my ears.
Bowie lifts his hips to align our cocks. I widen my legs to make room for him and arch to meet his touch as he presses us together. With a leisurely rocking motion, he sends me from eager to desperate between breaths. I groan against his temple, trap him in my firm embrace, his soft skin beneath my palms a treasure of sensation.
Licking from my collarbone to my ear, Bowie rises to catch my gaze. “What do you like?” His voice is low, husky, and overlaid with desire, thick and sweet like honey. I’m in awe of him. To see him like this. To hear his bedroom voice. To know I inspired it.
“Everything. Anything. Whatever you want.” My need to please him overcomes whatever preferences I might have. My preference is Bowie. I can’t imagine anything we could do together that wouldn’t feel wonderful. I could come from this, if only his lazy rocking sped up in the slightest. The slide and tug of his cock against mine already has me panting.
A naughty twinkle dances in his gaze. “We are in agreement, then, because I also want”—he leans down until his lips cover mine—“everything.”
Kissing him, I explore his body with my hands and his mouth with my tongue, memorizing every curve, every line, every soft and hard space he has to offer. His silken hair caresses my cheeks, my throat, creating an ebony halo to encase us.
The slow press and retreat of his hips turn maddening.
I cradle his head and wrap my arm around his back, using my strength to flip us over. Positions reversed, I can bear down on him with as much pressure and speed as I like.
Bowie allows this with an indulgent grin, his mouth open, fangs glistening. He throws his head back against the velvet bedsheets as I thrust us together. Without oil, we’re limited, or else pleasure would spike with pain.
Stopping for even a second requires all of my restraint.
I sit on his thighs and admire the view of Bowie laid out beneath me like an offering. My palms itch to hold him, to memorize more of him by touch, to learn all his favorite spots.
His stomach muscles quiver. His flushed, swollen cock is leaking. I take it in hand and swipe the fluid around his crown until it shines. Beautiful.
Wriggling, Bowie nearly lifts me as his hips thrust, driving his length into the circle of my fist. He looks positively shameless, fucking my hand like this. I burn the image into my mind to savor whenever I want. I’ll picture it often.
“The oil,” Bowie gasps, his pretty lashes fluttering. “And your cock against mine. Please.”
The way he says “please,” his wet lips pouty and lush, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.
Bowie grips my thighs and squeezes while I uncap the little jar and slick my hand. His whole body is in motion under me, writhing, sinuous, his muscles flexing and contracting. His nipples pebble to hard buds demanding to be teased.
I ignore his shaft and spread the oil on the twin nubs instead, flicking and massaging them between my fingers.
