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Except for the bed.

That was specially made for supernaturals like me. Extra reinforced, extra large, and designed to withstand strength that would reduce most furniture to kindling.

I'm suddenly very fucking glad I spent the money. Because this is a woman I want to devour—and I need space to do that properly.

I lower her onto the mattress.

She sinks into the dark bedding, her hair mussed from my hands, lips swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed.

And I just stare.

Fuck me.

Something about seeing Belinda in my bed hits differently.

Harder.

Not just lust. Something far more dangerous.

An image flashes through my head of her waking up here. Bare feet padding across my floor.

Her crap cluttering my pristine bathroom counter. Sparky terrorizing Albert. Baked goods in my kitchen. Her cinnamon scent everywhere.

Sounds like home.

I crush the thought immediately. There is no future here.

Because I don't get one. Not with my curse.

But tonight—tonight, apparently, I'm weak enough to pretend.

“Fuck, Sweet. You look good on my bed.”

I lean over her, brushing my mouth along her jaw and down to her neck. Her hands immediately go to my belt.

“Too many clothes,” she gasps.

I lift my head.

“Impatient?”

“Yes.”

The answer is so immediate I laugh.

“Good to know.”

“Don't get smug.”

“Too late.”

She tugs at my belt. Nothing happens. She frowns. Tugs again.

“Why is your belt complicated?”

“It's not.”

“It has a ratchet.”