Page 58 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Léandre

I ’m jolted awake by pressure on top of my chest and immediately feel the loss of the warmth that was cocooning me.

Wrapped in the smell of Cassiopé, I was having vivid dreams of her rubbing herself against me in bed, and right when I thought I was going to get lucky, she ran away.

I rub the palm of my hands against my eyes to wake me up a bit.

It smells like her.

What?

I bring my left hand to my nose and breathe deep.

I smell like her.

Fuck.

I can’t get any harder and feel precum drip from my cock.

Because it can mean only one thing. My hand was on her skin at one point during the night.

I look around myself.

The pillow that was used as a barrier between the two of us yesterday is on the ground on Cassiopé’s side of the bed.

I don’t know who threw it away during the night, but I don’t really care.

I smell my hand again.

It definitely smells like her. It’s not the only part of my body that does, though. I can smell her on most of me, but this is where I can smell her the most easily.

She left me alone in the bed.

I should get up.

The thought crosses my mind, but I’m not moving from the bed.

The hand that smells like her moves along my torso, and I find myself cupping my cock.

Does that make me a freak? A pervert?

Because all I want to do is rub myself with something that smells like her when she obviously left the room as soon as she could.

She slept next to me, that I know for certain, but it looks like she couldn’t wait to be away from me.

And yet all I do is reach for my cock inside of my briefs and wrap my hand around my hard on.

It should feel wrong but weirdly, it feels right, stroking myself wrapped in her smell.

It would be better if it was her hand instead of mine. Hell, it would be better if it was her mouth or her cunt, but I feel desperate for anything belonging to her, and I’ll take what I can get.

I grip myself and twist my wrist in an up and down movement. I’m not soft with myself, but I don’t want to add saliva or anything else to my hand. This needs to be only with her smell.

My mind needs this to be only with her.

My breath grows choppy. I groan, and I can feel the telltale tingling that tells me I’m getting close .

I close my eyes, and I imagine her beautiful green eyes and her dark pink pouty lips smiling at me as I wrap her long black hair around my fist.

I imagine her looking at me from between my legs, and I keep pumping my cock faster in my fist.

“Firefly.” I groan her name as I bite my other fist and ropes and ropes of my cum hit the bottom of my shirt.

I know these walls are thick, but I’m not about to shout her name if she’s in the other room.

When I’m done, I’m slightly shaking, and I look like a mess.

My shirt looks like some weirdo tried to paint it, and I feel lightheaded.

I also feel fucking good.

So focused on my pleasure, I didn’t pay attention to the rest of my body, but now it occurs to me that I feel rested and even energized.

I feel great.

I don’t know if it’s from sleeping in the same bed as Cassiopé or if it’s that morning orgasm, but I haven’t felt good like this in days.

Slowly, I smile to myself.

It’s going to be a good day. As soon as the thought comes to my mind, my cock starts growing hard again, and I know I’m going to need a cold shower if I want to survive another day.

I need to talk to Cassiopé.

I think.

It’s barely been over a week since we arrived here, and I already feel like I’m losing my mind.

Sometimes I feel like she’s staring at me with need in her eyes and other times with fear. When she doesn’t know that I’m looking, it’s like her guard gets down for just a second and then her eyes are nothing but ice, and I keep telling myself that I must have imagined it.

I don’t know what to do or what to think.

I’d love to say that I’ve never been good with women, but I can’t remember and it’s also killing me .

I need to know if there is a chance my attraction isn’t just one sided.

I need to know so I can kill this need in the egg or I’m going to go mad at the idea that maybe there is a chance that this could happen—that there is a chance Cassiopé is even slightly attracted to me.

With a sigh, I sit on my side of the bed with my feet on the ground and look at my shirt.

It’s ruined, but I hide it in the side pocket of my bag.

I can’t do that with my laundry next week. I don’t think I would feel okay handing that to Angélique or whoever will come and bring the mattress.

Because if we keep sleeping in the same bed, and if I keep being left to my own designs every morning afterward, I can see this happening again.

Well, for the next five days.

Then I’ll have my own mattress.

Then I’ll have my own bed, without Cassiopé in it.