I giggled, feeling utterly spent and lighter than air.
I rolled over and burrowed my face into his chest. “I’m so glad you’ve come around.”
He chuckled, then wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “Me, too.”
* * *
I startled awake sometime later, not having realized I’d dozed off. Frederick was walking towards me with a glass of water, a small smile on his lips.
He sat beside me on his bed. “Here,” he said, offering me the glass. “In case you’re thirsty.”
I was. “Thanks.” I took the water from him, taking a sip before setting it on the bedside table. “How long was I sleeping?”
“Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
I shifted a little beneath the duvet. The last thing I remembered before drifting off was using his chest as a pillow, his arms wrapped around me. He must have covered me with the duvet when he left the room.
Tenderness flooded me. I reached up and cupped his face in my hand. He sighed, his stubble rough against my palm as he leaned into my touch.
Only then did I notice that his jeans were tented with what must have been an extremely uncomfortable—and massive—erection.
Given his recent confession about his relationship to fruit, I was tempted to make a wildly inappropriate Is that a conjured banana in your pocket? joke. But I didn’t. Because for one thing, he’d just given me one of the most mind-meltingly incredible orgasms of my life, and teasing him felt like a mean way to repay him. For another, I knew full well that his pants situation was due entirely to the fact that, yes—he was happy to see me.
I trailed my hand slowly down his chest, not stopping until I reached the waistband of his jeans. His stomach muscles rippled, tensing and flexing beneath my palm.
“Cassie,” he said, hoarsely, quickly covering my hand with his own to stop me. “Wait.”
Sitting up, I pressed a kiss to each corner of his mouth. He shuddered and let his head droop forward onto my shoulder.
“What is it?”
“I’ve never done . . . the rest of this before without . . .” He closed his eyes, unable or unwilling to look at me for what he was about to say. “Without blood being involved.”
My heart skipped, like, five beats.
“Oh.”
“Indeed.” He lifted his head and met my gaze. “It’s been over a hundred years since I’ve been intimate with someone. I’m out of practice, and I want you so badly. If you touch me, if we . . . continue this, I don’t know if I’ll have the self-control to go without once I’m . . . close to the end.” He fell back onto the pillows and let out an anguished breath. “I don’t know if I can do this without hurting you.”
From this vantage point I could now easily see the outline of his cock, fully erect and straining hard against the front of his jeans. I wanted to peel those jeans off and get a good look at him so badly I could taste it. I felt certain he could do this without hurting me. If he was going to lose control and take a bite when he shouldn’t, it would have happened long before now.
Suddenly, I had an idea.
“I know what I can do to help you stay in control.”
He cracked one eye and looked at me.
“What?”
Wordlessly, I began to undo the button of his jeans. His hands clamped down on mine like a vise.
“Cassie, wait—”
“Shhh,” I murmured, willing his panic to abate and nudging his hands away. I reached inside and gripped him in my hand, reveling in the way his breath caught and his head fell back on the pillow.
My heartbeat quickened. He was big—which, yes, I’d already anticipated. But it was one thing to see the outline and general shape of a guy’s dick when he was still wearing clothes—and entirely another when you had it in your hands.
“What are you doing?” His voice was low, his dark eyes dazed and incredulous.
He was so beautiful, and vulnerable, in that moment. I wanted to make him feel as good as he’d just made me feel.
“This,” I said, before leaning over and taking him into my mouth.
I half expected him to protest again, but he didn’t. He fell back against the pillows with a rough groan, hands balled up into fists and pressed into his eyes.
If he was worried about losing control and biting me once he was inside me, what better way to dial things down a bit than to give him a take-the-edge-off orgasm before we did that? A pregame blow job usually helped guys I’d been with in the past last longer. And, okay, Frederick wasn’t like other guys—but in this department I was willing to bet he wasn’t that different from anyone else.
On instinct, I took him deeper into my mouth, enjoying the heady combination of salt and musk and Frederick on my tongue. The helpless, pleasured sounds he made as I worked him spurred me on, encouraging me to take him deeper. Grip him tighter.
When I glanced up at his face his jaw was slack and his eyes were glazed over in pleasure. He met my gaze with a reverence and a desperation that made me eager to have him inside me, and soon.
“Is this . . . is this okay?” he murmured. He cupped my face in unsteady hands, eyes holding mine as he gently stroked my cheeks with his thumbs.
God, he was beautiful.
By way of response I snaked a hand around his body and squeezed his ass.
He gave an inhuman groan I felt more than heard as whatever fragile grip he’d still had on his self-control snapped and fell away. One large hand found its way to the top of my head, pushing me down just a little as his hips began to jerk upward in a rhythmic motion beneath me. It was hard, it was fast—and it was glorious. If the incomprehensible sounds he was making, and the way his head thrashed back and forth on the pillow, were any guide, Frederick was incapacitated from the pleasure of me taking him as deeply as I could.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. Both of his hands were on my head now, guiding my movements as he trembled and fought for control. And for release. His thrusts were already becoming more erratic and picking up speed. My hands were growing slippery with my saliva and his own secretions. “Cassie, oh god, Cassie, I can’t, I . . . I can’t finish without—”
He cut himself off, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from saying anything else. I looked up at his face as we moved in tandem, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his chest heaving.
He’d said he’d never done this before without blood being involved. Was it possible that he actually needed blood for this?
If so, how long was he planning to deprive himself—to let me drive him to the edge like this—without asking for what he needed for release?