* * *
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”Rel fists the sheets, back arching off of the bed with my face buried between her legs while she comes.
One hand gripping the thigh draped over my shoulder, my other hand presses her back down, thumb strumming over her clit rapidly. Electricity crackles over her skin, phantom strokes of air licking their way up my arms, caressing my chest and neck. Only when she sags against the bed with a contented sigh do I stop, pressing another kiss on the inside of her thigh before standing.
Flopping down on the bed beside her, I adjust myself, despising my jeans, but knowing better than to switch to sweat pants when my resolve was already hanging on by a thread. “Told you I’d make it worth your while to wait.”
Rolling onto her stomach, completely naked to face me, I nearly cave. But I just have this nagging feeling in my gut that the timing isn’t right, and with as much as my magic has been desperately wanting to get in her pants lately, I’m inclined to listen.
If I were to sleep with her now, there’s no way I’d be able to restrain myself from marking her, and that’s pretty fucking permanent. When mates give into the bond…it’s irreversible. Things change, mentally and physically.
Shifters develop telepathic pack links, while we have a similar connection, only it’s more emotion based. She starts crying in the shower? I’ll know. I get annoyed over something stupid and know it, so need time to collect myself before accidentally lashing out, she’ll know despite me trying to hide it. It’s a window into each others’ souls, and that just seems like too much, too soon.
If she can’t even trust me to tell me why she’s hiding, who’s trying to kill her, then how can she let me into her head? And sure, she might seem on board right now, but lust rides you hard when you meet your elusive, fated mate, so that’s to be expected. But I think it might legitimately kill me if I marked her right now, just to have her regret it tomorrow when she’s thinking clearer.
“I can’t even be mad,” she states, rolling off of the bed and stretching, giving me a mouthwatering view that has me snapping a mental picture for the shower tomorrow. “I get it, really. It’s a lot, and I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around the concept either. Though admittedly, I feel worse for you right about now. Sure you don’t want a blow job or something to make it fair?”
I’ve inadvertently turned us into roommates with benefits. Stellar job, me.
“I’m not worried about fair.”
I watch her as she gathers her clothes, tossing them on the bed while she redresses slowly. And it’s then that I realize that she’s waiting for me to leave, since she’s been staying in my room since coming here. Rolling to my feet, I grab my shirt and yank it back on, a weird, unsavory feeling taking root in my gut that I’m not sure how to deal with.
I found my fated, she’s on board with the idea, and I’m the one insisting on keeping some distance between us. So I don’t really have a right to feel so…cheap, right now, yet here we are.
Exactly why we shouldn’t have that bond in place yet. How the hell am I supposed to answer her questions when I know I’m being illogical? When I’m just sitting in the bathtub, imagining how easy it would be for my car to fall off of a bridge?
I don’t actually want to die, but I can’t deny the random, intrusive thoughts that crop up from time to time. I have a good life. I’m happy. Yet those sudden thoughts hit me out of nowhere sometimes, more curious than depressed.
What would I do if my car was sinking in the river and I couldn’t open the door? Do I still have a pocket knife in my center console to cut the seatbelt? How much force would be needed to break the windshield under that much water and am I capable of it?
I wouldn’t have to worry about the bills then, or changing the batteries in the smoke detector. It wouldn’t matter if I missed a credit card payment, tanking my credit for the next billion years because I forgot there was a bank holiday and it was stuck pending for too long.
Because the world simply doesn’t care if I live or die.
“When do you want me to wake you up?” I ask instead of voicing any of the things that would have her glancing at me like I was crazy.
“Half hour before we need to leave so I can get a quick shower?” she asks, crawling into bed. “I have a feeling even that won’t be enough to wake me up, though, I’m still having a hell of a time adjusting to the schedule change. I’m simply not built to go to bed at six-freaking-thirty.” Thumping her head on the pillow, she punches it a few times to punctuate her statement and I smile despite my tumultuous thoughts.
“If you’re desperate, there’s booze in the kitchen. I just didn’t want you thinking I was some creep that was trying to lure you into my home and get you drunk. But now that you’re happily throwing your panties at me sober, help yourself.” I catch the pillow she chucks at me before it can hit me in the face, laughing.
“You’re kind of a dick, and I hate that I find it attractive,” she chuckles, getting to her feet and heading my way. I stay firmly planted in the doorway, forcing her to slide past and grind her ass against me as she passes, just to buy into the mood. “And I’m also partially convinced that you have the self-restraint of a saint. My brain is hanging out in my clit right now, and I’m genuinely impressed that you’re able to be so level headed.”
If she only knew how many times I’d jacked off to thoughts of her the last few days.
“If I’d have known serial killers were secretly this horny, I’d have quit locking my door years ago.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but her smirk belies any actual annoyance as I follow her into the kitchen, both of us slamming back a few shots to help us sleep. “Sorry if I sort of jumped you,” she offers, looking mildly embarrassed.
Stepping up behind her as she leans against the center island, I grip the counter, caging her in and she pivots to face me. “Definitely nothing that you have to apologize for. I’m happy that you did. I was…a bit worried things wouldn’t go well once the topic came up.”
Softening her gaze, she kisses the hollow of my throat and my eyes close on instinct. Magic pulsates from my skin, shattering the glasses nearby, and I still don’t open my eyelids. Taking slow breaths, I force it back down to a manageable level, though it still writhes in agitation under my skin, driving me crazy.
“Same, honestly. I think that’s why I’m being so flippant about it; because I’m nervous,” she admits and I finally open my eyes.
Everything that I’m spiraling and worrying about seems to be completely in my head, products of my overactive imagination. Esmerelda may praise my patience, but I’m in awe at how she seems to take things in stride so easily. She’s far more level-headed than I am, and I’m honestly envious.
I’m a damn mess. I can’t do this; it’s too much.
