Page 21 of Watch Me Turn
I always thought rich guys were too lazy to try. After all, they don't need to charm a woman into bed. A thick wallet will make up for a lack of thickness in the pants department every time, but he's giving this maximum effort. Like he's worried that an Olympic committee is going to hold up scorecards at the end, and he's going for gold.
His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the rhythm of his rotating hips is ungodly. But it's his mouth that shocks me. After days of quiet brooding and trauma bonding, his silver tongue is getting the workout of a lifetime. The things he's been whispering in my ear are downright sinful.
"Mmm...qué rico estás," he murmurs as he thrusts up into me. "You are so delicious, Sophia. You feel so fucking good wrapped around me..."
I moan because I can't think of anything better to say and almost roll my eyes when a third orgasm hits me out of nowhere. Rippling through me in wave after perfect, exhausted wave.
Angel's on top of me. Pinning my arms above my head and kissing my neck as he slows his rhythm. I pull him against me, hooking my ankles around his waist and wait for the pulsing aftershocks to subside.
I never thought I'd say this, but I think I've hit my orgasm limit. The first one was incredible, the second an unexpected surprise, but the third is like...okay, bud, what are you trying to prove here? Vampires can go all night if we want to, but we both need to eat, and the poor guy is still running a fever.
Not that it seems to have had any effect on his stamina. He's been giving it his all. We've been flipping back and forth. Me on top. Him on top. Him behind me, etc. I'd considered getting behind him, but I think that would be a bridge too far in the fight for dominance. Both of us want to be in control. Both of us love losing control. It's a perfect little dance, like an Argentine tango.
"Your turn," I say, rolling him onto his back. "I'm starting to get hungry, and we need to feed soon."
He tilts his pelvis up and groans. "Then bite me again? Then we never have to stop."
"You wish." I laugh, throwing my head back. My curls cascade down my spine, tickling vertebrae like fingertips.
"Do I need to say please again?" he asks as he reaches up, curls his fingers in my hair, pulling my face close to his neck and offering himself up to me. A whispering chant ringing in my ears. "Please. Por favor. S'il vous plaît. Please..."
I scrape my teeth against his skin—a teasing, barely-there caress along his jugular vein. He shudders, his breath catchingin a sharp gasp. His blood surges beneath the thin layer of skin, which flushes pink and calls me in.
Just a little more.
I bite down, and his hands fly from my hair to find my waist with bruising strength. His fingers dig into my flesh as he tries to hold on to me. My hips still rotate a perfect figure eight as I drink from him.
"F-fuck," he gasps, the word barely a whisper as his eyes glaze over.
It takes no time at all, and he starts to pulse beneath me—a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates up through my body and into my soul. The room fills with a series of powerful, guttural groans as he slows, surrenders, and finishes.
I pull away tentatively, the two tiny punctures weeping dark red beads and put my thumb in my mouth. "See?" I whisper, running a gentle venom-coated thumb over the wound. "Good things happen when you say please."
"I think you're ready to take more blood," I call over my shoulder as I squeeze the thick coppery liquid into the warm milk. "You're tolerating the mixture well, so I might as well up the concentration."
Angel is stretched out on the bed, his arms raised above his head and watching me as I work in the kitchen. His eyes lazily rake over my body as I awkwardly bang into things, stumble over my own feet, and leave spilled pools of lacrimae on the counter. Something about being watched so intently makes every ounce of grace evaporate from my already clumsy body.
"You can take your time, by the way," he purrs. "I'm enjoying the view."
"You need to get a better hobby." I laugh as I turn to him.
He never takes his eyes off me as I slink over to the bed, two mugs of blood in my hands, liquid sloshing against the ceramic.
"When will I drink...just blood?" he asks.
"It depends, but you'll get much thirstier in the next day or so. We can try it tomorrow if you'd like? We'll start small to begin with and gradually add more. How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I guess. I still don't have much of an appetite."
I don't know how to tell him that the thirst should be burning through him by now. That the thought of drinking blood should be all-consuming. But he's not exactly turning on schedule. At least he no longer looks like he's at death's door.
He sips the mixture, still tentative, but when the first few mouthfuls pass without incident, he relaxes and gulps it down with gusto. I think I must be getting the hang of this turning stuff. Maybe I'll even get a performance bonus for keeping Angel well fed and well fucked at the end of it all.
He lifts his arm, making space for me in the nook, and I curl my legs up under me and get comfy, pressing my chest against his side. I'm only in a tank and underwear, and he's just in his boxers. If you were to take a candid photo right now, we'd look like a human couple having breakfast in bed on a Sunday morning. Sprawled among rumpled white sheets, sipping freshly pressed coffee over the newspaper. That beautiful kind of intimacy where you're totally at ease in each other's company.
Except he's not my husband. He's the man I'm supposed to be guarding, and I'm in danger of crossing yet another line with him. Sex is fine. Sex doesn't mean anything. Drinking from him? I don't know, I guess I was just hungry.
But this? Whatever this is? I shouldn't be doing it.
