Page 94 of Mongrel
“I have you,” says Bowie. “Turn over.”
My body obeys gladly, shifting on the feather-soft bed to lie prone. Anticipation tingles along my skin, a needy sensation that makes me want to beg for his touch. But I don’t have to because it follows immediately: the weight of him along my back, his mouth on my shoulder, his teeth scraping against my flesh.
“Bite me,” I plead.
In these past weeks as we’ve traveled home, Bowie has moved past his reluctance to feed from me, with each session coming more naturally than the last. I love it. The sharp twin pinpricks, the sucking sensation, the smell of my blood in the air, knowing it’s nourishing my beloved.
“Not yet,” he teases, dragging his fangs along my throat. “Later. When you’re coming with me inside you.”
“Moon and stars, I’ll come now if you keep talking like that.”
His answering chuckle puffs against the fur on the back of my neck. I want him to clamp his jaw over my nape and hold me down.
I’m not sure how he always knows what I’m thinking. Bowie swears he can’t actually read my mind, but he rises and grips the back of my neck with his hand and squeezes.
“Yes,” I moan. My hips lift my ass off the bed to press into him. “More.”
“Patience,” he murmurs, letting me go to reach the bedside table. He’d better be going for oil. That’s the only acceptable excuse for the current lack of touching.
I whine into the bedsheets. This feels new for me. To be waiting. Not to take charge like I’ve always had to, to protect my secrets. Bowie is safe, and I like this feeling, this suspenseful expectation of euphoria.
As he returns, the bed dips, his weight shifting over me. His hands land on my arched back, so cool against my hot flesh I’m surprised there’s no steam.
Bowie parts my thighs with one of his, the smooth slide of soft skin on skin sending a shiver straight through me.
I thrust against the sheets.
He takes pity on me and slides his hand under my hips to grip my cock. “On your knees for me. Let me see you.”
I rise to obey. A flutter of anxiety comes, but I let it go as Bowie’s stroking keeps me from worrying about what I might look like. One hand forms a perfect channel for me to push into, and the other lifts and massages my sac. I imagine what his elegant fingers must look like touching me there, and I shudder.
A bead of moisture leaks from my tip. Bowie swipes it up to swirl over my crown. His hands on me feel marvelous, wringing out whimpers and moans I can’t hold in, though I try to at least keep them quiet.
“Do you want to lift your tail, or should I?” he asks.
I’m so delirious with pleasure I’ve nearly forgotten I have a tail, much less that it’s curled over my ass, blocking his way. I fling it up, exposing myself further, then bite into the pillow while waiting for him to touch me there too.
The seconds that pass form an eternity of anticipation. Of curiosity. Of bashful self-conscious jitters. But when the soft, oil-slick pad of his finger nudges between my cheeks, I melt into his touch like a plummeting drip of hot wax down a candlestick.
Moaning my delight, I press back for more, and he gives it—massaging, circling, teasing.
“You sure you’ve never done this?” asks Bowie.
I register the jest in his tone but answer in all honesty. “Never. Couldn’t before you.”
His fingers work magic on my body. In my body. “I won’t lie and say I’m not glad. To be your first. To have this for myself.” His words add another layer of pleasure.
“Only you,” I murmur. The more he probes and stretches, the more my curiosity blooms with each new sensation. “Will it hurt?”
Bowie’s thoughtful silence is loud in my ears. “Perhaps a little. How are you now?”
“Good,” I moan the word out on a breath. “Did it hurt your first time?”
“Yes, but only because we didn’t know any better, and I was impatient.”
Impatient. I can relate. I’m feeling that now. I want him, all of him. I want us to be joined. “Please.” My whimpers are growing desperate. “I don’t care if it hurts.”
“I do.”
