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I moan into her mouth and slide my hand from her waist, over the curve of her hip and to the rump of her ass. I squeeze it through the material of her T-shirt and pull her even more firmly against me so she’s hard against my stiff erection.

A little whimper bubbles in her throat and she rubs herself against me.

Fuck!

There’s no turning back now, no stepping away from this. I’m in too deep. Nothing could tempt me to step away from her needy kiss and her inviting body.

I slip my hand under the hem of her shirt and brush my fingers against the gusset of her panties. Eros was right. Damp. She’s already wet.

I groan.

My hand travels down to her thigh and I squeeze that too, lifting her leg to curl around me so I can grind against her. She follows my lead, rubbing herself against me, both of us finding pleasure in the friction, lost in the feel of each other’s bodies. Mine hard and cold; hers soft and warm.

I move my hand from the back of her head, fingers stroking over her hair and then to her throat. I stroke along the artery that runs there, feeling her pulse dancing against my fingers.

“Shit,” I mutter. She whimpers again and I can’t help but grind myself into her core with more force and more urgency.

We’re standing in the center of her room making out and dry humping like I haven’t done since I was a kid back in Slate Quarter. It’s so innocent, so raw, so different from everything that came later, from all the twisted stuff I did with her.

It’s a relief. Like a rebirth. Like an absolution.

Her mouth falters against mine, her thigh shakes in my hand and her head falls backward.

She’s close.

“Come on, little one, come for me. I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”

I grind my hard cock right along where she needs me most and she falls apart, a long strangled cry rushing from her lips and blood racing to the surface of her skin in beautiful crimson waves.

I can’t help myself, I slip my hand up her thigh, into her panties, and trace along the plush lips of her pussy. Her body shakes in my arms.

“Fox,” she murmurs, right by my ear, her breath hot. “Please.”

And how can I refuse her? I slide my finger right into her cunt. She’s wet and warm and she squeezes around my finger in waves of convulsion. It’s too much. I follow after her, grunting and orgasming like I haven’t done in years .

Free of shame. Free of repulsion. Free of self-loathing.

I’m too lost in her to feel any of that.

My finger still buried in her pussy, I scoop her up with my other arm and carry her backwards to the narrow rickety bed, dropping her down onto the hard mattress and crawling between her legs.

“Think you can do that again, pretty girl?” I say, sliding my finger from her.

“Do what?” she says, lips swollen from my kisses, face flushed, hair coming loose from its braid. She looks like every fucking teacher’s worst nightmare.

“Come,” I growl and slide two fingers inside her this time, stretching her open a little more, testing her.

Could she take me? Could this tight pussy fit my cock inside?

I reach high inside her searching for that spot.

I know when I find it because she squeals, hips rising from the bed.

“Fuck, yes,” I say, stroking at it until she’s writhing and bucking on my fingers, her arousal trickling down my hand to my wrist.

“Fox,” she pants.

“Professor,” I remind her, because fuck, if we’re doing this, we may as well do it properly.

She scowls at me but she still does as I say. “Professor.”

“Yes, Miss Storm.”

I brush my thumb against her clit as I massage that spot inside her and she loses her ability to speak. Her eyes roll back in their sockets and her eyelids flutter shut.

She’s fucking beautiful and I lean into her, squeezing at her breast through her shirt and pressing my lips against that pounding pulse of hers, feeling her blood flowing right below the surface.

I kiss that spot, then lick my tongue up and down that vessel full of her sweet blood, all the time playing with her sensitive little nub and the spot inside her cunt .

“So pretty,” I murmur and she likes that, her pulse racing even faster.

I kiss her a little harder, scraping my fangs against the tender skin and she comes for me a second time.

I feel her orgasm in her cunt – in the way it squeezes and milks my fingers.

I feel it in her clit – the thing quivering against my touch.

But most of all I feel it in her pulse – feel it fluttering against my lips and my tongue.

I screw up my eyes and drag myself away from her.

Because it would be so easy – so easy when she’s drowsy and content with her orgasm – to sink my fangs into her neck and drink from her.

So easy.

But I won’t do it. I am not a monster.

As I pull away, she opens her eyes and blinks up at me.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“Does what hurt, little one? Are you telling me you haven’t–”

“No,” she says, her brows knotting together. “What is it with you men and your obsession with virgin–”

“What did you mean?”

My fingers are still buried in her cunt and reluctantly I slide them out of her. She frowns a little harder.

I’m covered in her arousal and I want nothing more than to plunge my fingers into my mouth and suck them clean. But I’m hanging on by the barest of threads here and that could be the thing that snaps it.

Instead, I wipe my fingers on the bed sheets and wave my hand through the air, using my magic to clean myself up.

She props herself up on her elbows. Her shirt’s pulled up around her waist. Her panties are yanked to one side. One of her legs dangles over my lap, the other rests behind me. She’s exposed and I can’t drag my eyes away from her pretty pussy .

I lick my lips. What I’d give to taste it. What I’d give to sink more than my fingers into her.

But I can’t trust myself. There’s only so much control a half-man half-monster can command.

“When you feed?” she says, her gaze fixed on my fangs. “Does it hurt the person you feed from?” She reaches up and touches the side of her neck. My attention there has left a mark.

I swallow. Hard.

“For the briefest of moments, yes. But there’s something in my kind’s saliva that is numbing and soothing.”

For a moment I think she might offer up her throat to me. But to my relief the moment passes.

“I have to go,” I say. “I’ve already stayed too long.”

“When will I see you, Professor?”

“In class I imagine, Miss Storm.” I hesitate. “You know we have to keep this a secret, don’t you? For now.”

“But if we truly are fated mates–”

“This situation is unusual,” I tell her. A commoner a mate of someone like Beaufort Lincoln. It’s unheard of. And then for her to be my mate too – a man not bonded to the others by fate. I’ve never heard of it before. “And that is dangerous for all of us.”

She nods and I kiss her again.

As I’m descending the steps of her tower, listening and searching the shadows for who may be watching, I consider if my words were disingenuous.

This situation is most dangerous for me. I am playing with fire.

I halt on the stairs and lean against the wall, the image of her hand stroking down her throat vivid in my mind, stealing away the cold breath in my lungs.

I was disingenuous to her then as well .

The magic in a vampire’s bite is more than just numbing, far more than soothing.

It’s like an opioid. It has the victim swimming in ecstasy, begging for the feeder to feed from them again and again.

And that’s why I will never feed from her.

I am not like the Princes.

I have no desire to make her my slave.