Page 59 of Even Robots Die (Even Ever After #3)

Florentine

B rice takes a step back and looks appalled at what he just did.

I’m trying not to take it personally, but it hurts.

I might have forgotten for a moment why bat-shifters have been called vampires ever since they arrived from their own dimension.

They share the traits of our myths about vampires. The bloodlust and the turning into bats.

I heard about the vampire dens that were created at their arrival and how it turned into a bloodbath in barely a few months.

I don’t know what happened exactly, but I know they crave blood.

I would love to say that I could handle it, but I still feel his hands lingering at my hips and the feel of his lips against my throat.

I can still feel his hard on against my pussy and how cold and empty I feel now that he took his distance.

What I’m not sure I could handle is knowing it was all about my blood, that the arousal I felt against me was just because of the blood lust, and that it’s not about me.

That, I think, could break me.

So instead of asking what happened and trying to get to the bottom of it, I change the subject.

I’m too scared to know for sure that it was all about my blood, so I prefer not to know at all.

Denial, my old friend.

“Milton, enter the woman’s name in the new database,” I say out loud to let Brice know this subject is closed.

That seems to pique Brice’s interest.

“What database could you have that would be more up-to-date than Interpol’s?” Brice asks, slightly surprised.

I force a large grin.

Fake it until you make it?

“Sometimes getting in the worst situations can be to your advantage,” I say with a cryptic smile.

“What do you mean?” he says, annoyed.

“I get shot, I get in the database,” I say with a shrug.

Right then, Brice realizes what ‘worst’ situation I’m referring to and a growl escapes him before he is right back between my legs and grabbing the side of my throat, just on top of the two puncture points I can feel on my skin.

“Don’t joke with this,” he says with a snarl.

“Or what?” I ask, tipping my chin up to look him in the eyes. “Or you’ll bite me? Been there done that, dude.”

“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” he says as I feel his hand tense around my throat.

I gulp down the idea of asking ‘or what?’ again, but he can see it in my eyes.

“Or I’ll have to remind you what you can still lose,” he tells me.

The way he worded it should feel like a threat, but instead I feel it caress my skin like a promise.

“Like what?” I bite back. It lacks any venom and it occurs to me that I sound breathless, but I don’t care. But Brice’s other hand just landed on my hips again and it feels like whatever he is fighting, I might be the one who’s gonna win.

“That insolent mouth of yours is going to be the death of me,” he mutters as I feel the fingers at my hips digging into my skin and bringing me to the very edge of the worktable.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, and this time my voice has a playful lilt that seems to spark something inside of him.

I feel like I’m playing with fire.

I know he’s riding his bloodlust and that I shouldn’t taunt him, but what can I say? I’m the kind of girl who makes stupid choices when she wants something.

And I’ve been wanting Brice for weeks now.

I should feel bad and ashamed, because he’s definitely going to hate me when the bloodlust has receded, but I can’t seem to care.

All I care about is that the man of my dreams just dragged me against his hard cock and he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me.

I should feel ashamed, yes, but all I can feel is need.

I wet my lips as my pussy contracts around nothing.

I need this. I need him.

I bring my hand to his belt again and pull him to me.

“This is wrong,” he says but doesn’t move this time, as if he couldn’t fight the bloodlust more than he was already doing.

“Then make it right,” I tell him as I let my hand slip under his shirt and my nails trail over his abs.

I feel him twitch between my legs, rubbing my clit without him meaning to.

I don’t stop the moan that slips past my lips and his gaze darkens visibly under my eyes.

“Fuck it,” I hear him mutter to himself, and then the last thread of his control snaps. The hand at my throat tips my face up, and his lips crash against mine.

This kiss is far from soft. It’s hungry and demanding. It’s urgent and controlling. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed and more.

My hand glides along Brice’s muscles and soon the other one joins the first at his back as if I could pull him even more against me.

I rock my hips against him as Brice nibbles on my bottom lip before I open my mouth so he can tangle his tongue with mine.

His hand moves at my ass and I feel him pushing me to rock harder against his cock.

I whimper.

Fuck, this feels so good.

Better than anything I could conjure in my dreams.

“Isabella Cordoba, last known address, quatre boulevard Haussmann, Paris eighth.”

Milton’s voice rings loud and clear in the small workshop, and Brice pulls away from me.

His breathing is as ragged as mine and my breasts heave slowly as I collect myself.

Milton’s reminder that getting in Brice’s pants shouldn’t be my priority right now is not lost on me.

“This was …” I say, still out of breath. I mean to add ‘phenomenal’ or ‘insane’ after, but Brice speaks before I finish.

“A mistake.”

And my world collapses a bit at these two little words.