Page 31 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

I pull the hem of his shirt free and slide my hands underneath, mapping the cool firmness of his skin. He exhales sharply when my nails graze lower. I push the fabric up and off; it drops to the steps behind us. My sweater follows, then my shirt. His hands trace the line of my ribs, and the dip of my waist.

I straddle his thigh on the next step, grinding down against his cock through our remaining clothes. The friction is rough, but it's not enough. I rock again, chasing pressure, and he grips my hips to steady me, thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hipbones. His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping lightly before he soothes the spot with his tongue.

"Hannah," he breathes, the word fractured. "Look."

I hold his gaze, and reach between us to open his belt, the zipper, freeing him. He's thick, the blunt head already slick. I stroke once, twice, watching him grind down. A low sound escapes him—half growl, half plea.

He works my jeans open with steady fingers, shoving them down my thighs along with my underwear. I kick them aside, one leg still tangled in fabric. He sits on one step and pulls me over him so I'm straddling his lap, knees braced on the wood. The step digs into my shin, but I don't care. I sink down slowly, taking his cock with more ease this time. The fit is tight, a burning pressure that forces my body to yield. I feel every ridge, every thick slide as I settle fully onto him.

A ragged sound leaves me. His hands flex on my waist, holding me there but not forcing movement. "You feel—" He cuts himself off, breathing mingling. "So fucking perfect. Take what you need."

I roll my hips experimentally. The angle lets me control the depth, grinding down so he presses against that sensitive spot inside me with every motion. Wet sounds fill the stairwell—the slick slide of my body around him, the soft creak of the wooden steps under us. I brace one hand on the banister and ride him harder, chasing the friction. His thumb finds my clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes that match my rhythm. The dual sensation shreds my focus; pleasure coils sharp and hot low in my belly.

He leans back slightly, one arm locked around my lower back to keep me anchored. His other hand stays between us, working my clit until my thighs start to tremble. I lean forward, biting his shoulder to muffle the broken moan that tries to escape. He hisses at the sting but thrusts up to meet me, driving deeper.

"Don't hide it," he rasps against my ear, voice chopped and desperate. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how you fall apart for me."

The words tip me closer. I move faster, the slap of skin on skin growing louder, obscene against the quiet house. Sweat gathers at the small of my back. His stubble scrapes the swell of my breast when he mouths at it, leaving a flushed trail. I dig my nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks that I know will be gone before this ends.

The tension builds, merciless. My rhythm falters as everything tightens—my thighs, my core clenching greedily around his cock. He senses it, thumb pressing firmer, circling faster. "That's it. Come on me, Hannah. I've got you."

It hits like a wave crashing through every nerve. My vision whites out. My body locks down around him in pulsing, rhythmic squeezes, a soaking, fluttering grip that milks him. A raw cry breaks from my throat. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out until I'm shaking, oversensitive, gasping against his neck.

Only then does he let go. With a guttural sound, he pulls me down hard and holds me there as he comes, pulsing deep inside me. The sensation drags another aftershock from me. We stay locked together, hearts hammering against each other, breaths ragged and shared. Sweat cools on our skin. The wooden step bites into my knee; his arms stay where they are, wrapped.

I press my forehead to his, still joined, the intensity of it grounding me more than any words could. The hurt from before hasn't vanished. It lingers in the quiet spaces between our heartbeats. But this—choosing him here, on these stairs, body and trust both laid bare—feels like the first real step across the gap he once created.

We stay like that for long minutes, hands stroking slow paths over damp skin, trading soft kisses that say more than we manage in words. Eventually I ease off him with a shared hiss. He helps me pull my clothes back on, careful with the tangles, then dresses himself. We move to his sofa and I lay in his arms a little longer.

"We need to find the archive," I say into the quiet. "Before Nathan or anyone else gets there first. Whatever answers it holds, we could face them side by side. If you want that."

Alaric's hand stills, then resumes its gentle path. "Agreed. No more secrets between us about this. We start at the old property records tomorrow. Cross-reference what Elspeth left you. We learn it all, together."

I lift my head to look at him. "And if it gets dangerous?"

"We stay careful. But you're not walking blind anymore. We aren't. I got you, Hannah."

I settle back against him, the weight of the day easing into something like solid ground. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes, but inside the room holds steady. We are not safe from what waits beyond these walls, neither is Lily. The larger threat remains. Yet here, in this moment, we have chosen each other without illusion.

24

ALARIC

The morning light inside Hannah's house is a different animal than the morning light I've watched it through. All I've done is watch over this house and them instead of appreciating the beauty of it. Now I'm standing in Elspeth's dining room holding a cup of coffee I have no use for, and the change is small and total. Hannah put the key in my hand last night. I keep finding it in my pocket, the cold weight of being let in instead of kept out.

She's spread all of her grandmother's things across the dining table. The chimney tin sits open at the center, rust freckling its lid. Around it she's arranged the rest: the brittle survey, three journals, the rubbings she lifted from the cellar marks, her own notebook crowded with pencil.

"Let's sort it by type," I say. "Dates together, names together, anything with a measurement on its own page⁠—"

"No. Not paper first."

I make myself stay where I am and let her cross the room ahead of me.

"Elspeth didn't trust paper," Hannah says. "She trusted walls. Floors. The places nobody searches because they use them every day." She lays her palm flat against the wall beside the chimney breast. "We start here."

"And here is⁠—"

"Wrong. Can you see what's wrong with it?"