"What if it's not enough for me?" I rock against him again, deliberately. "What if I want to feel you lose control? Want to know what you sound like when you come?"
His grip on my hips tightens. "Iris..." It’s low and deep, like a warning.
"Please." I kiss him, slow, wet and warm. "Let me touch you."
For a moment I think he'll refuse. Then he nods, and his hands fall away from my hips.
"Show me what you want," I whisper.
He takes my hand and guides me against his skin.. "I want your hands on me."
He's hard and cool and silken, and when I wrap my hand around him he makes a sound I've never heard before. Raw and desperate and entirely undone.
"Like this?" I stroke him slowly, learning the shape of him, what makes him gasp and tense.
"Yes. Just like that." His head falls back against the couch, his eyes closed. "Gods, Iris."
I feel what he feels: the pleasure of my touch, the building pressure, the need for release. It's intoxicating, being able to feel his response to me.
I experiment with pressure and speed, watching his face, feeling his reactions through the bond. When I twist my wrist on the upstroke, his hips jerk up into my hand.
"That's, fuck, that's perfect."
His control is fracturing. I can see it in the tension of his body, feel it through the bond. He's trying to hold back, trying to make it last, but I don't want him to hold back.
I want him wild. Undone. All mine.
I lean down and press my mouth to his throat, right over where his pulse would be if he were human. "Let go," I whisper against his skin. "I want to feel you come."
That's what breaks him.
He comes with a shout, spilling over my hand, his whole body going rigid with pleasure. I feel the intensity of his release: overwhelming, mind-blanking, perfect.
When he finally goes limp beneath me, I'm trembling almost as much as he is. Feeling his orgasm through the bond was like experiencing my own all over again.
"Holy Gods," he breathes.
I can't help but laugh. "Good?"
"I don't have words for what that was." He pulls me down for a deep, languid kiss. "You're dangerous, you know that?"
"Me? I'm not the centuries-old vampire."
"No. You're worse." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You make me feel things. Want things. Hope for things I thought were impossible."
The levity drains away, leaving something tender and raw between us.
"Like what?" I whisper.
"Like a future. Like I could have a life instead of just an existence." He strokes his thumb across my cheekbone. "Like I could be loved."
My breath catches. "You could. You are."
His eyes search mine. "Am I?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with vulnerability.
I could deflect. Could make a joke or change the subject. But we just promised to be vulnerable with each other, and this is where it starts.
