Page 27 of To The Final End
“Bree—” His voice is wrecked. Desperate. “I need—I can feel it—I don’t want to hurt you—”
“You won’t.”
He shifts angles and hits something inside me that makes my vision white out. I dig my nails into his shoulders and he hisses, hips stuttering, mouth still pressed to my neck.
“Right there,” I manage. “There.”
He drives into that spot over and over. The pleasure builds—a wave cresting higher and higher—and I can feel him getting close too, his rhythm faltering, his fangs scraping my skin without breaking it.
“I can’t—” He’s shaking. Fighting himself. “Bree, I’m going to—I need to—”
“Then take it.”
I turn my head. Bare my throat completely.
“Take what you need.”
He shatters.
His fangs sink into my neck at the same moment his hips slam home one final time. The pain is bright, sharp, immediate—and then it transforms. Pleasure floods through me, liquid and hot, tangling with the orgasm that crashes through my body without warning.
I scream his name.
He drinks.
I feel everything—his hunger finally being fed, his relief, his overwhelminggratitude. The bond blazes between us, my Ether rises to meet his pull, feeding him willingly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He pulses inside me. I clench around him. The feeding amplifies every sensation until I can’t tell where the orgasm ends and the blood-bond begins.
His pulls are deep. Greedy. Starving.
Then they slow.
Gentle. Savoring. He licks across the wound, sealing it, and I feel the sting fade to warmth. His hips are still pressed flush against mine, both of us trembling with aftershocks.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
Blood stains his lips. His eyes are wild—blown dark with pleasure and something like awe.
“Did I—” He swallows hard. “Are you—”
I pull him down and kiss him.
I taste copper. Salt.Us.
“I’m perfect,” I whisper against his mouth. “You’re perfect.”
A sound tears out of him. Something broken almost like he’s becoming something new.
We collapse together.
After, he buries his face in my neck.
His whole body is shaking. Not from exertion. Something deeper.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I run my fingers through his hair, still damp with sweat now instead of shower water. “For what?”
