How to Discipline Your Vampire(98)

            “Are you sure?” he asked, unsure. He ran his hands skittishly through his hair. “I . . . I don’t know how.”

            “Of course you do. Use your feelings for your instincts, not your desire for punishment. Don’t just give,” I explained, gripping his shirt in my hands. “But take, too.”

            Wordlessly, William scooped me into his arms and took me into our bed as his lover and equal.

            We undressed each other slowly, renewed thrill in the revelation of bare skin. Each article of clothing fell off with meaning, and I soaked in the electricity of the moment.

            I took my time tasting his body as each new expanse of flesh became visible. Tight forearms. The hollow of his hips where his pants sat. Somehow, I didn’t know how it was possible, I found more parts of him to enjoy. The smooth muscles between his back and chest. The dimples where his lower back met his behind. And my God, the man had positively elegant ankles.

            William took his time with me as well, and more confidently than usual. I liked it. When we kissed, I felt his strong, corded arms press me roughly to him. He wanted me like this, and I was so proud of him for it. And, more significantly, he tore—tore—my panties off. This was indeed a man—virile, strong, and territorial. His body was designed for me alone. My match, my partner. From his eyes I knew: All he would ever want and desire hinged upon me.

            And I gave myself to him fully. He entered me with desperation, but not out of weakness—out of strength of feeling. I understood him now. With every stroke of his hands, and with every thrust of his hips, William showed me what it was to make love. What it was to be someone’s everything. I clung to his body, arms and legs both clutching him with need. I buried my head in the crook of his neck as he took me over and over, countless ways, in innumerable positions and pleasures.

            No words. Grunts, gasps, sighs, whimpers. The only words mates needed for each other in the heat of love.

            I was moved by him tonight. His gentle strength. His burningly cold, silken touch. His fearful and yet courageous honesty. As we lay together after our hours-long tryst, I marveled at him. He was a wonder.

            “What are you thinking?” he asked after a while, watching me watch him.

            I ran my fingers along his motionless mouth, touching his smooth lips. “That was my first time,” I said sleepily. “Making love.”

            He smiled into my hand, placing soft kisses on my palm. “It won’t be your last,” he said, eyes scorching.

            “I hope not,” I said, wriggling into my sleeping position, “now that I have a live-in boyfriend.”

            Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling.

            He pulled me closer and nuzzled my ear. “Can I change the subject for a moment?” he asked.

            I nodded.

            “Can I ask about your past now? You talk in your sleep, you know. And a question has been haunting me for weeks now,” he whispered, and I squirmed in his arms.

            “Oh God,” I whimpered, worried about what I may have said. “What sort of things do I talk about?”

            He snickered, then answered, “Mostly things about your day, and about us . . . nothing too embarrassing.”

            I felt another long pause again, so I asked, “Too embarrassing? William—spill the beans.”

            He chuckled again, and asked, “I just want to know—who’s Bizzy?”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

            Cerise

            “Bizzy is . . . ,” I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. “Bizzy is my Domme, so to speak.”