Please note that the following chapter is NSFW. Lemons ahead, dear readers. For those who need me to be more to the point, this chapter contains scenes with graphic sexuality and is intended for mature readers.
. . . . . .
Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 30
S̄ìng l̀x cı
. . . . . .
There is no night, no day, no time. No air beyond the breath he provides through kisses and groans that vibrate growls of approval. Words spoken in baritone, rippling across skin and nerves pulled tight with the loveliest ache.
At some point, her feet leave the floor, and her back meets the bed. The tie is rewound across her wrists and secured to the iron rose headboard. Then, one tie becomes two, and her ankles are bound to the footboard.
Through the open window, the night air joins them, holding her in its summer embrace while Edward, cool as the promise of fall, plays with her like he has a right to her soul.
At some point, in a climax so strong she feels as though she'll shatter, she gives it to him.
A devil between her thighs rains kisses and rapture, and she has no will and doesn't want any. She says "yes" every time she moans and pleads for more.
When he takes her, he joins their bodies in a move she knows she'll remember later by the bruises and soreness. The tiny amount of pain only heightens the bliss, though she can't stand not being able to touch him.
She begs, and his dark laugh and refusal make her head rasp side-to-side against the pillow. He pulls her hips up to his, and she has no ability to move. The truth, at its core, is she doesn't need to.
There's no need for reciprocity. He takes what he wants, freeing her from thought and responsibility. He knows what she needs, and it makes her entire consciousness sing.
This is sex in its rawest, taboo form. The kind of sex that should be dirty but washes her clean instead. It's not rational that she should trust him, of all creatures, this way. And yet… she does.
When he perfects his every movement to a level that's a crafted compromise between too much and never enough, it's a silent vow that she is his priority. When she believes she can't sustain it, and he exchanges rushed for slow, it's an unspoken promise that he will keep her safe. Approval is delivered in a sultry timbre of filthy compliments growled against her skin.
The rise of her release is a wave, pulling her under. Her voice is hoarse as she pleads once more. "Let me touch you."
"Have you earned it?"
"Yes, yes…"
He angles his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind her tightly closed eyelids, sending her reeling, her legs shaking as she comes.
As she floats back to herself, she hears his praise and feels the ties leave her wrists and ankles.
"Now you've earned it, love."
. . . . . .
Edward takes Isabella's deliciously limp weight and pulls her upward. She shivers with the aftershock of her climax and opens her eyes. She looks sated, rumpled, and hauntingly beautiful.
Dragging his fingers down her spine grants him shivers that ignite his passion. Her mortal frailness forces him to end their play, but pleasurable means of aftercare await. She needs hydration and rest.
She belies his plans by floating down to the realization that her plea to be released has been granted. She places her freed hands on his chest and runs them over his shoulders.
It's heaven and hell sensations—the best of both.
She cups his jaw, traces his cheekbone, and teases a thumb across his lips in a taunting offering. Her pupils dilate, and her mouth opens when he licks but doesn't bite.
Currents of sensation dart through him when she undulates her hips. He's been so lost in her body that he almost forgot about his—such a dangerous thing.
The kiss of her lips to his temple and then his cheek is exquisite, her warmth a haven.
He groans, and she smiles—a siren even in her drowsy state.
When she pushes him down, he allows it, crooking his arm and placing it beneath his head. The unimpeded view of her sublime body seems designed for his basest desires. Every part of her fits his hands, his cock, his mouth, and most importantly, his mind.
"So beautiful, lamb. Sculptures should be made of you."
She smiles, shy ingenue and knowing temptress, blushing. He likes the blush, but he likes the sex flush better. Cupping her breast, he pearls the nipple with a stroke of his thumb.
She leans into the caress, shifting her hips to allow more contact where they're intimately connected. A hiss of pleasure on his end makes her do it again. She mimics his touch by dragging a fingernail across his peck, circling the nipple and cocking her head to watch his reaction. The feeling is nice, though not as lovely as watching her eyelids flutter when he moves to give her other breast equal attention.
Taking his other arm, she mischievously presses it over his head. He laughs, the rare sensation an enjoyable novelty. She can't hold him, but she's earned his surrender for as long as he can stand to allow it. Her kiss is his reward, the taste of nirvana, given freely and without coercion. When she nips the corner of his mouth teasingly, knowingly provoking the demon within, he wonders at her suicidal ideations.
She does it again, and he rears up, bringing her with him. He gathers her hair and tugs, forcing her gaze to his ceiling. His incisors tingle lazily, thirst tamed by the sudden need to remind her who controls whom in this scenario. Loosening his hold, a riot of curls, snarls, and wayward, flyaway strands spill down to her waist. He wraps his grip around her pretty throat and caresses an intentional path down her midsection. When he reaches the sweet place between her thighs, he fingertip dances her back into a panting, mewling, beautiful mess.
It's only when she comes again for him that the thirst rises. His focus narrows in on her rapidly beating pulse, the place where her shoulder and neck meet a decadent biting point…
"Fuck." He grates the oath, battling his desire. He wants to taste the endorphins from her fiery little climax. Sip it straight out of her veins, and chase it with the cream between her trembling thighs.
"Do it." Even in the throes of her pleasure, she recognizes his need. Or did he speak out loud?
As if in proof. "Please, Edward."
And who is he if not the mate who will deny her nothing?
. . . . . .
Edward adjusts the water temperature from the shower head and eases Isabella beneath it. When she sighs and tips her head to let the flow cascade over her hair, he thinks he would sell his soul to prolong this moment for eternity—such a pity he doesn't have one.
Isabella not fighting is a sight to behold.
She allows him to wash her, watching him through hooded eyes, lips parting in soft, agreeable moans when he finds a knot near her spine and massages it out. A light laugh when he lifts her feet, each in turn, and slides soapy fingers across her arches.
She makes an encouraging sound when he washes her hair, and he drags out the task just to hear it again.
He turns her to face him so she can rinse, and when all the suds are gone, he carefully glides in the conditioner. When his gaze falls from his task to her face, her open eyes regard him curiously.
"You called me love." Droplets of water cling to her eyelashes. Because he is never sated with her, he imagines picking her up, her slippery legs going around his waist…
He tips her chin and rinses the conditioner away.
She says, "Not lamb, not Isabella. Love."
"Did I?" he responds, knowing full well he did.
She says nothing, so he acquiesces to her silent demand, giving her a pass for the hidden why because Rome wasn't built in a day. He doesn't want to force them from her.
"Are you not agreeable to the term of endearment?"
"What am I to you now?" she asks with troubled eyes.
He thinks about how to answer. You are my life. My missing soul returned. Romantic assessments that fall short of reality. Singer, lover—la tua cantante. Damnation's one saving grace. He discards them all, not relishing a return to fighting. Besides, she's not yet herself, still enveloped in the submissive euphoria, primed to please and be pleased. Not a state conducive to existential discussion.
And he has no desire to talk of such things with her naked and wet in his arms.
His mind supplies an alternative, guttural and feral.
Mine.
He hums a low sound and smiles. Yes, that works.
Her pupils dilate as he dips his head, drops a kiss on her lips, and growls the word down her throat.
. . . . . .
Bella stretches her legs out, pillows piled behind her as she savours the best red wine she's ever tasted. It's nothing like the stale, cheap stuff she drank earlier at her house.
The word languish comes to mind.
After their shower, Edward turned his living room into an oasis fit for romance. Pinterest board inspiration. He placed the mattress from the bed on the floor in front of the fireplace and scattered dozens of candles in each corner, banishing dusty shadows and blurring out construction chaos. He lit a low fire, banking the heat so it stayed at bay. The crackling and the whoosh of air travelling the flu provide a backdrop of sound to the music he's playing from his phone. Something slow and sultry. Jazz maybe.
Incongruously topping it all off, a pizza box. She made a sizeable dent in the delicious, cheesy sphere inside.
She feels hedonistically pampered.
Hedonistic. Like languish, that's not a word she would've used before tonight, and it's probably dangerous to let herself feel this way.
Edward returns with the wine bottle and tips a few more inches into her glass before stretching out beside her. She wants to curl into him. Instead, she sips her wine, watches the low, writhing flames, and says, "Leah thinks I'm your mate."
He takes her hand, meshing his fingers with hers, and drinks from his matching wine glass, though that red liquid is not wine.
"Am I?"
She starts to think he won't answer, but after a moment, he asks, "What do you know about vampire mating?"
"Nothing," she replies honestly.
His thumb strokes a soothing pattern against her palm. Turning on her hip, his jean-clad leg grazes her bare thigh, and the shirt that she stole to wear brushes his bare chest. The minimal clothing between them is all his. Hers are strewn upstairs on the bedroom floor, tangled up with her discarded inhibitions.
In profile, his jawline appears diamond-etched as he stares at the fire with an unfocused gaze. Flickers of shadow and light play hide-and-seek across his chin. Drowsy, she lowers her head to his shoulder. A log in the fire snaps, and she watches firefly sparks dance in a frenzy.
"When vampires find their mates, the world, as our kind knows it, stops. The universe and its laws cease to govern our reality. Instead, we revolve around the one who claims us."
"Doesn't it matter that I'm human?"
"Apparently not."
Bella blinks tiredly. "Is it love?"
"No," he replies, and then adds hesitantly, "It is … so much more, Isabella. Where love is fickle and fragile, a mated bond is irrevocable, unbreakable."
Bella closes her eyes, the weight of her eyelids eased down by the tears his words create. The last thing she feels is Edward, turning them into big and little spoons, and the hushed murmur, "Sleep now, Lamb. An eternity awaits us. Time enough to figure it all out."
As sleep drags her down, her last thought catches on eternity and hovers there, lost on how to decipher it. Promise or peril? Her dreams reach out to catch the word, and she tumbles into a landscape of blood-soaked ground and rivers of red, the premise of a normal, human life lost forever. And in the distance, Edward beckons, offering a love that is more than love in exchange for a death that never ends.
. . . . . .
He is content while she slumbers. Strangely so. The night has always been a source of disquiet for him. The hardest part of his change, beyond controlling the bloodlust, was losing the ability to sleep. Ask any insomniac; sleeplessness will drive you mad.
During his time with his family, there were distractions: chess with Carlisle, cars and wrestling with Emmett, inventions and new technology with Jasper. He roamed carnivals, nightclubs and dingy, illegal casinos with Rosalie. Alice dragged him to fashion shows, museums and theatres. There were always new backwater towns and teeming, modern cities, universities, degrees, and travel.
When he left, a driving need to fill sleepless hours drew him to the calculating realms of business and finance. He amassed fortunes by shrewdly buying companies on the verge of collapse, rebuilding and selling them for staggering profits.
And in between, he hunted and atoned, hunted and atoned…
Bella shifts, and he moves with her, thoughts leaving the past and swerving into the complications ahead.
This small respite of peace with her will not last. He's learned that when she is tired, she is deceptively receptive. The morning will no doubt herald the return of her recalcitrance. The truth might be out between them now, but her acceptance of it is not guaranteed. He'll need to walk a fine line and be patient. A trait that he lacks, unfortunately.
Case in point, Isabella nestles her round bottom against him, and he feels himself growing hard. Impatience, boredom, and lust turn seconds into hours. He pulls the blanket up to her waist and forces himself to rise lest he wake her inconsiderately.
It isn't easy to leave their makeshift bed, perfumed with the love they've made and warmed by her exquisite body heat. He watches her for a moment, eased when she settles once more. A quiet snore resonates from her slightly parted lips. He grins as his ego inflates, replaying his favourite scenes from the activities that have exhausted her.
He takes the wine glasses and the pizza carton to the kitchen, stopping to secure her robe tie from the floor. He tucks it into his pocket for safekeeping as it's not a treasure he wishes to lose.
In the kitchen, after he tidies, he looks at the stack of renovation-related paperwork on the counter. He powers on one of his laptops and stares disinterestedly at more of the same. He studies the design meant to replace the old fireplace mantel, noting it is scheduled to be installed today. Delays in material mean the project is occurring after the floor refinishing was finalized this morning, a less-than-ideal occurrence.
A glance at the time in the taskbar alerts him that it is nearly three a.m. He checks the itinerary for the day. No work is scheduled to begin until noon, which allows time for the delivery of the mantel. This means Isabella need not rise early.
Restless, Edward abandons the makeshift workstation. Resettling beside Isabella, he balances the laptop on one thigh, bending his other leg upright at the knee so he can recline against the stacked pillows. He finds the position quite comfortable. Beds have been unused props in his homes for most of his undead life. He might need to reconsider the waste.
Like a magnet, Isabella rolls over in her sleep, drawn to him. She turns her head on the pillow, nestling her cheek into the fresh indent. Her movements cause the blanket to slip down, a temptress even in her somnolent state. The flickering glow from the candles creates Rorschach patterns of traceable delights across the creamy canvas of her flesh.
His shirt rests at the highest point of her thighs, a tease of exquisite torture. He finds himself holding his breath, hoping for the slightest movement to bare her to him. Over two centuries of life and only now does he understand the male preoccupation with feminine divinities.
He trails the tip of his pointer finger along a pale blue vein in the inner corner of her bent knee. He has an intense longing to have her sketched and painted, immortalized like this, forever.
Isabella, ever sensitive, responds to the barely-there caress with lips parting and a deeper knee bend.
Fascinated, Edward loses the minimal interest he has in his work. He sweeps down the vein as though he's holding a fine-edged paintbrush. In response, her spine curves a fraction of an inch off the mattress, and her leg shifts, seeking greater contact.
He isn't surprised when he looks up from his artistic indulgence to find her eyes half-mast.
Regret at waking her is dowsed when Isabella places her hand over his. Her turn to play the artist with a brush across his knuckles, the feeling resonating down to parts uninterested in bidding her back to slumber.
She curves those fingers around his, drawing them slowly up her leg.
Resistance is futile when she whispers, "Keep touching me."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
. . . . . .
Bella was asleep, dreaming of Edward touching her. And now she is awake, and it isn't a dream.
Her heartbeat drums a soft echo between her legs. His gentle stroke on her inner thigh is a turn-on her sleep-fogged mind craves like a drug.
When he allows her to guide him closer to where she aches, she feels a surge of power. His eyes are a black lake beneath a starless midnight sky, and she knows she might be drowning, but it doesn't stop her.
"Here," she whispers with a sharp, indrawn breath when his hand is right… there. She wants to watch his expression, but the bliss won't allow it. She thinks she moans, but it gets lost when he says her name in a way that has her hips lifting, needing more.
"Please." She isn't afraid to beg. She knows he likes it.
Instead of giving her what she wants, he withdraws. She opens her eyes to witness him tossing a laptop she never noticed off his lap. The clatter it makes hitting the floor might be concerning—if she actually gave a damn.
Clearly, he doesn't either. He leaves it lying at a precarious angle, the screen flickering. She reaches for him, but he's too fast for her, turning her onto her side, her back to his chest. "Show me again where you want me to touch you, Isabella."
He captures the edge of the shirt she is pretty sure she'll never return, lifting it, inch by slow, sweet, torturous inch, and cups her breast. It's intuitive to push her backside into the cradle of his hips, and the hard ridge of his erection gives her proof that he wants this as much as she does.
She guides his fingers down, slowly, so slowly, because it feels so good, and then it gets better.
Perfection.
"Don't stop," she says with panting breaths and a tone that would embarrass her if she didn't feel like she'll die if he quits now.
He hums a low sound, and she feels his lips curving against her skin. "Say please."
"Please!"
"Again."
"Please, please…"
She hears herself repeat it, and then she hears nothing at all, not even her own cry of release.
. . . . . .
"You didn't bite me." Isabella, soft and relaxed against him, breathes the words like an admonishment, imparting a regret that nearly matches his own.
She will bate him to her death if he isn't careful. He doesn't know enough about this mating bond. He can only assume she enjoys the pain of it, little masochist, but it could be more. It could be an intrinsic part of her subconsciously giving him what he requires—a way to tether him.
It's all conjecture at this point.
To think, he spent all those decades around mated pairs, blocking their lust-filled interactions from his mind for their privacy and his sanity, only to now wish for the knowledge.
"No. I've taken enough this night."
"You barely took anything."
"You need it far more than I do."
Surprising him with her boldness, she reaches back between them and cups his erection. He groans, and she laughs.
Rolling over, she presses her lips to his, and he cradles her head. The drape of her hair over his hands is delicious, as is her taste, tinged with sleep, wine, and even a touch of garlic from her meal.
It's a good thing the garlic vampire-repellent thing is a myth.
"Your turn," she whispers in between languorous kisses.
"Is it?" he asks as she frees the button on his jeans. He lets her push him onto his back as she rises to straddle his hips.
The sound of his zipper lowering and the feel of her hand freeing him from behind its cage has him groaning. She bites her lower lip and then licks it, and he guesses her intent—a dangerous one.
He weaves his hand into her hair, tugging hard in warning restraint, her mouth forming a soft "oh" that has his cock jerking in her grip.
"Not an option," he tells her through gritted teeth, the leash on his control stretching thin because, yes, he wants it to be.
"Why?"
That she chooses to use her strictly limited number of whys on this subject matter adds fuel to the fire currently burning him alive. Or unalive, as it is.
"I'm sure you've noticed," he replies ruefully, "that my strength is great. It takes a considerable amount of control to prevent injuring you. I'm not sure an activity like fellatio is safe."
She dips her chin, forcing him to loosen his grip, her nose scrunching. "It's a blow job, Edward. You might be overthinking it."
He sits up and growls against her lips in pure frustration. "Nothing about your safety is overthought, Isabella."
Sighing, she turns her head to place a soft kiss on his cheek. Then, his jaw and the place just below it. "But you want it," she murmurs teasingly.
"I wouldn't know."
She freezes momentarily before jerking to look at him. Still holding her hair, he gives her another tug, which she willfully ignores despite the sting it must cause.
"Never?" she asks.
"Never." He admits.
She bites her lip again, and that doesn't help at all.
"Well, now I really want to."
Edward rolls his eyes. "Why am I not surprised."
"What if I said pretty please, and I promised to follow all your rules?" There is a teasing tone to her question, but an increase in how aroused she is also accompanies the request.
For reasons he cannot fathom—since he can have no craving for something outside his scope of experience—he wants it as well. That she proposes it this way adds appeal. The thought of her pleasuring him calls to his dominant nature in a very carnal fashion.
Her safety is first, however.
"You need sleep."
"I really don't."
"Liar."
"Are you saying no?"
"I have difficulty saying no to you."
A speculative look graces her features, one that has a hint of sadness he dislikes intensely. "Do you? Is that part of what's between us?"
Edward shifts a section of hair over her shoulder, skimming the side of her neck.
She leans her head into the touch. "Because I seem to have the same problem."
He holds her soft, inquisitive gaze, measuring the passing seconds with the rhythm of her heartbeats. "Yes." It's a reply to her question, but to more than that if she chooses to look deeper.
Perhaps she does, but then she pumps her hand, sending frissons of sensation through him that has reason falling to the wayside.
Taking Isabella by the waist, he brings them both to a standing position. He bends to grab the nearest pillow and drops it between them.
"On your knees, love."
Her eyes dilate, and he's rewarded for his decision with the vanishment of that inadvertent sadness.
When she obeys, he is forced to draw in air to stifle the groan that would demonstrate the power her submission holds.
"Give me your hands, Isabella."
She doesn't hesitate to comply, and his pleasure in that knows no bounds.
Once more, he takes her robe sash from his pocket and secures her wrists. This time, he ensures she can free herself if she chooses. Symbolism is the goal, not restraint. The pale red marks from their earlier play are still present. He has no desire to add to those, lovely as they are.
He lifts her chin. "My rules, yes?"
"Yes." Her tremulous agreement harnesses the feral edge of his mood.
He uses his thumb to part her lips, dipping inside and pressing down on her tongue. She nips at the pad, and he hisses as she follows it with a flicker of her tongue.
"Look at you, lamb, so obedient, so beautiful on your knees—an angel made for a sinner. Open that mouth for me, Isabella. Take what you've begged for."
When she does, he gives in to her will. His way. His rules.
Straight to his fucking ruin.
Mine, she tells him with every kiss, lick, suck and sweet, eager swallow.
Mine, he tells her when he can bear no more and drags her up to take her standing, right there on the mattress, her legs wrapped around him, her breath in his mouth and his in hers. When she is about to come, whimpering his name, begging for his teeth with a broken, little moan, he understands he will not be the same after this night.
He takes her to the nearest wall and presses her against it, freeing the tie and then dragging her arms above her head, his hand shackling her wrists, pinning them. His hips move, finding the perfect rhythmic glide to make her eyes roll back in her head.
"That's it, little beauty. Come for me, now."
She cries out, and he lets himself go over the edge with her.
Such a glorious way to be reborn.
. . . . . .