It doesn’t help much.
But it’s something to hold on to while I wait for Ash to save me from myself.
Ash has a key. He lets himself in and finds me exactly where I left myself: on the kitchen floor, shaking, trying not to claw my skin off.
“Jesus, Raven.” He crouches in front of me, and I can see the concern in his eyes even through the haze of lust turning myvision soft at the edges. They’re dark, almost black, with flecks of red when the light catches them right. Demon blood. Not a lot, maybe three or four generations back, but enough to make him immune to most supernatural bullshit. Enough to make him useful when I need someone who won’t get tangled up in the same nets that catch everyone else.
Enough to make him safe.
He’s wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt that’s seen better days, jeans with holes in the knees. His dark hair is messy, like he rolled out of bed and came straight here. He probably did. There’s stubble on his jaw, and he smells like cigarettes and the cheap cologne he thinks covers it up. It doesn’t. But I don’t care. Right now, he could smell like a dumpster fire, and I’d still want to bury my face in his neck and never let go.
“How bad?” he asks, and his voice is careful. Professional, almost.
“Bad.” I reach for him, and he catches my hands, holds them still before I can grab him like the desperate thing I am. His skin is warm. Warmer than mine. Warmer than human. It helps. A little. Just enough to remind me how to breathe. “Six months worth. I didn’t-I didn’t realize he’d fed off her this much.”
“You never do.” He’s not judging. Just stating facts. He pulls me up, guides me toward the futon. The sheets are clean, at least. I try to keep that much together.
He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls me into his lap. The relief is immediate. His arms go around me, solid, and I bury my face in his neck. He smells like smoke and leather and something dark, danker, I can never name but makes me think of comfort anyway. His touch grounds me, blunts the sharp edge of need enough that I can think past it to something like coherence.
Almost.
Not quite.
I pull back just enough to look at him, and whatever he sees in my face makes his expression shift. Understanding, but also something else. Something that looks like want but can’t be. We don’t do that.
We don’t do feelings.
“Raven...”
I kiss him before he can finish. Hard, desperate, all teeth and hunger and six months of someone else’s starvation pouring out of me into him. He makes a sound, surprise? And then his hands are in my hair, on my waist, pulling me closer.
“Need you,” I gasp against his mouth. Not a request. A demand. A necessity. “Ash, I need?—“
“I know.” His voice is rough, careful. “I know. I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, my waist, sliding under my tank top to find bare skin. The contact sends electricity through me, making the hunger surge and recede at the same time. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough when lust has you between its teeth.
“Easy,” he murmurs against my mouth, even as I’m pulling at his jacket, his shirt, trying to get closer. “Let me...”
But I can’t wait. Can’t be patient. The sin is burning through me, demanding, consuming. I swing my leg over his lap, straddle him, press against him hard enough that he groans.
“Raven.“ It’s half warning, half surrender.
“Please.” I hate how it sounds, how desperate I am. But I need this, him. Need the hunger to stop before it tears me apart. “Please, Ash.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I see it in his eyes, the thing he never says, the feeling I pretend not to notice. But then he nods, and his hands are on my hips, steadying me.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He does. He always does.
His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, more deliberate. One hand tangles in my hair while the other slides down my spine, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him through our clothes—hard, ready, exactly what the lust is screaming for.
I reach between us, fumbling with his belt, his zipper. My hands are still shaking, but he doesn’t stop me. Just watches my face with those dark eyes, concern and desire warring in equal measure.
“You sure?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. Even though we’ve done this before.
