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If she’ll let me.
She’s so vulnerable right now. I am too. The both of us on a balance beam, trying to walk toward each other but each step means the risk of a fall.
I know she doesn’t want to get hurt.
I know I have the ability to hurt the both of us.
I’m as afraid of myself as anything else. Afraid that I’ll back out over fear. That I’m going to do something stupid and harmful in order to “protect” myself. That the centuries I’ve lived by myself, without really having someone to truly love, will be my default each and every time, and that I will choose the life I’ve known over the life that could be.
That beautiful life I could have with Amethyst.
All because I’m so scared that I won’t have her forever.
But I can’t let myself think about that now. About the fact that one day she’ll die, because I can’t let myself think about Yvonne either. If I do, I’ll collapse into nothing. If I do, I’ll run. If I do, I’ll lose the best thing I have in my life, without even really having it.
So, I push it all away as I always do because truths need to be buried sometimes.
I’m so lost in my torrid thoughts that I don’t even sense Amethyst’s presence until there’s a light knock at my door.
I get up, frowning. I fed the other day, drinking more blood than I’m used to to try and slake my hunger, but it still doesn’t help the dizziness I’m experiencing. Maybe that’s the product of burying things too deeply.
I walk over to the door, moonlight poking over the top of a cloud and coming in through the window, and look down at myself before I open it. I’m in just my boxer briefs and a t-shirt, though my dick is already half-hard due to Amethyst’s scent coming through the door.
I open it.
“Hi,” she says with big, sweet eyes and I feel strangely unsteady. “Can I come in?”
It’s late. It’s really late, and I’ve been giving her space all day, so I’m still surprised to see her like this.
I stare at her and it feels like everything in the world—all the sorrow and the worry and the fear—it all goes away.
It all whittles down to just one thing.
Her.
Suddenly I’m speechless, overwhelmed by what I’m feeling for her. I clear my throat and gesture for her to come inside the room.
She gives me a quick smile and steps inside. I close the door and watch as she walks to the middle of the room. I feel like I’m not breathing, and the tension between us is like a livewire, sizzling and taut and ready to snap.
“Are you okay?” I finally manage to ask, though I realize it’s a stupid question. None of us are okay.
With a small shake of her head, lips rubbing together anxiously, she brushes a strand of ebony hair behind her ear. She’s dressed in a pair of burgundy silk pajamas, her hair wild around her shoulders, her face pink-cheeked and free of all makeup. Her eyes, glowing like purple quartz, hold me in place.
I wonder if she knows how badly she compels me. I might be the vampire in the room, but she has a way that makes me want to fall to my knees and worship her, follow her every command.
I will do anything for you, I think.
I wish that thought didn’t terrify me to the core.
“Wolf,” she says to me. My name sounds like something she’s offering me, like it’s a piece of herself.
Then she starts to undo the shiny buttons on the front of her pajama top.
My dick responds in a flash, thick and painfully hard, already begging me to come inside her.
“I want to ask something of you,” she says, throaty, sultry, and I know she doesn’t have to ask. She continues to undo the buttons, a slow striptease, until her shirt falls open, showing the slice of skin between her breasts, all the way down the soft curves of her stomach.
Her shirt drops away, fluttering to the ground.
“What is it?” I ask. My voice shakes at the sight of her, of her gorgeous tits, her pink nipples tightening in front of my eyes. “God, you’re gorgeous. You goddess.”
I expect her to blush, for her gaze to turn wicked—she’s so good at being wicked—but her face remains haunted.
She steps out of her pajama pants, the silk pooling at her feet, and now she’s completely naked, walking over to me and I think I’m forgetting my own damn name.
“Wolf,” she whispers to me, reminding me of it. “I don’t want to think any more.”
She stops right in front of me, nude and so damn beautiful, and I’m as hard as fucking rebar. Her hand reaches out, warm fingers brushing over my forehead, down my nose, over my lips, my chin. It feels like I’m being touched by falling stars. “I don’t want to feel anymore,” she goes on, her voice quiet and yet brimming with urgency.
