Page 18 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

LYSSA

T he world narrows to a single point of impact.

His kiss is not a gentle exploration; it is a brutal claiming, a desperate, hungry fusion of bone and flesh.

The cold, hard pressure of his skull-face against mine is a shock, the taste of him one of ancient stone and the clean, sharp bite of the winter air.

A guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a vibration that travels through my own ribs and seems to shake me to the very core of my being.

He pushes me back, my body hitting the rough bark of a massive pine tree.

The scent of crushed pine needles reminds me of him.

This should be terrifying. I should be screaming, fighting, clawing at him.

But a wild, reckless heat floods my veins, a fire that matches his own.

My fear has burned away, leaving behind a pure, unadulterated need.

This is what I ran into the woods for. This raw, honest, terrifying connection.

His claws, long and sharp as daggers, sink into the wood of the tree on either side of my head, the sound of splintering bark a testament to the incredible restraint he is showing.

He is caging me, pinning me with his body, and I have never felt more free.

My hands find the sides of his skull, my fingers tracing the jagged, alien lines.

He is so much more solid, more real, than the ghosts I have been chasing.

I pull his face back to mine, demanding another kiss, and he gives it to me without hesitation.

It is a battle, a desperate clash of teeth and pressure, a fight to see who can get closer, who can consume the other first. I respond with a ferocity that seems to come from a stranger, a wild creature that has been dormant inside me.

My legs wrap around his waist, an instinctive, primal act, my bare feet pressing against the cold, hard muscle of his back.

I urge him closer, my body arching against his, a silent plea for him to erase the last agonizing inch of space between us.

This isn’t a courtship. It’s a storm. And I am ready to be broken by it.

Our movements become a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs and ragged breaths.

His mouth leaves mine to trail a burning path down my throat, across my collarbone.

I can feel the sharp points of his fangs graze my skin, a constant, thrilling threat that he holds in check by a thread of will I can feel vibrating through his entire body.

The cold air is a shock against my skin as his claws, impossibly careful, find the hem of my tunic and tear it away, the sound of ripping cloth a savage counterpoint to the wild beating of my heart.

My clothes are a hindrance, an unwanted barrier, and I help him, my own hands clumsy and shaking as I push the tattered fabric away.

The cold snow against my heated skin should be painful, but it is a clarifying shock, heightening every sensation.

He is everywhere at once, his mouth, his hands, the cold, smooth bone of his body pressing against me.

He worships me with a desperate, savage reverence, his growls a litany of my name, a prayer to a goddess he is in the process of devouring.

As the pressure inside me builds, a tight, coiling knot of need that demands release, his control finally slips.

The intensity becomes too much, the hunger too sharp.

His mouth closes over my shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, his fangs, which had been so carefully held back, sink into my flesh.

The pain is a sharp, clean sting, a surprising jolt in the sea of pleasure.

I cry out, half-pain, half-ecstasy. The moment the sound leaves my lips, he freezes.

He pulls back as if he’s been burned, his chest flickering with panicked horror.

I see the self-loathing crash over him, the immediate, devastating belief that he has failed, that he has proven himself to be nothing more than the monster I should have feared all along.

He starts to pull away, to retreat into his shell of shame. But no.

“No,” I gasp, my hands finding his skull, my fingers gripping the bone with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I pull his face back to mine, my eyes locking with the frantic.

I can taste my own blood on his lips, a coppery tang that only seems to heighten the desperate need between us.

I kiss him again, a messy, open-mouthed kiss that is not about forgiveness, but about acceptance.

He is a monster. He is dangerous. And he is mine.

My acceptance, my refusal to be afraid of the part of him that just hurt me, seems to shatter the last of his hesitation.

He comes back to me with a low growl, it is no longer just hunger, but a kind of desperate, grateful worship.

The final, frantic moments are a blur of sensation.

The feel of his powerful, strange body moving against mine, the chaotic light show from his chest painting the world in violent, beautiful colors, the sounds of our ragged breaths and broken moans the only music in the silent, frozen forest.

The release is a cataclysm. A shared, shuddering explosion that rips through both of us, leaving me limp and boneless in his arms, my own name a shattered cry on my lips.

He follows me over the edge, his massive frame convulsing, a deep, guttural roar torn from the depths of his being as he finds his own release.

We collapse together in the snow, a tangled mess of limbs, our bodies steaming in the frigid air.

The silence that follows is profound, broken only by the sound of our own heaving chests.

His heavy arm is draped over me, a possessive, protective weight.

My head is pillowed on his shoulder, the hard, cold bone a strange but welcome comfort.

For a long, breathless moment, the world is still.

There is no village, no sister, no grief.

There is only the silent forest, the cold moon, and the monster who holds me as if I am the most precious thing in his world.

For this one moment, lying in the snow, claimed and cherished by a nightmare, everything feels perfect.