Free The Last Girl by Kitty Thomas

than having sex with a man who couldn’t make me spark.
    Christian is still nibbling, light little bites with flat teeth. One of his hands cradles the back of my neck in a proprietary way. His other hand trails down the side of my cheek, then over my neck, then onward until he’s stroking underneath the satin chemise I slept in, caressing my breast through the slippery fabric
    I know I’m wet. I’m only usually this wet right after an orgasm brought by my own fingers. My whole body feels like it’s on fire, and I realize it’s shame: shame that he’s having this effect on me after how he’s scared me, taken my life away, locked me up, killed someone right in front of me without remorse. But my body can’t be reasoned with. It wants nothing more than to be filled in every way by this man, no matter what he’s done to me or to others.
    His demeanor is different than how he was with the prostitute. There is nothing rough in the way he’s stroking me, nothing demanding in his kiss as his lips move to caress over mine. I suck in a breath at the unexpected entry of his tongue. My brain has gone all fuzzy. I wonder if his effect on me is a vampire thing, but he already said he can’t control my mind. Maybe my body isn’t so immune. Every nerve ending fires in response to him, as if he can crook a finger and make the whole of me arch closer, begging for more of his touch.
    I don’t want to feel this. It was bad enough to crave his bite after the pain ebbed, and to crave his blood out of a basic need for survival. But to crave his hands and mouth on me. It’s just not right. I wish it was already morning so he’d leave me to my confused and troubled thoughts. But it won’t be that way.
    This isn’t Devon, a man I can put off for months. I know it’s happening right here and right now. Whatever charming nod to foreplay he’s making shouldn’t confuse me that he’s a gentleman. The arousal flares brighter as the image of him taking the prostitute from behind rises in my mind. I squeeze my eyes closed to try to shut that image out. It shouldn’t make me hotter for him. Whatever this is, it isn’t me. I repeat this mantra over and over in my mind because this can’t be who I am.
    To give in so readily to his darkness surely makes me just as bad. Is it lack of power or opportunity that has left me innocent? I can no longer delude myself into believing everything inside me is clean and pure. As his hand leaves my breast, skims over my belly, and moves beneath my panties, my hips jerk in response to him, and I know I’m not so sweet.
    “That’s it, pet. I knew it would be this way,” he murmurs against my skin.
    My friends would be disturbed by what’s going on in my head right now, but when you see the depth of danger and depravity Christian has shown he’s capable of, when you’re with a creature that shouldn’t exist that could so easily snuff out your life, anything not horrible and painful is welcome and appreciated. Good food. Nice accommodations. A gentle kind of molestation.
    No one with any sense in their head chooses to undergo any degree of torture if the only thing they have to do is spread their legs to make it stop. I don’t care how much self-worth they think they have or how much of a fighter they think they are. Real life doesn’t work that way.
    At least this is what I tell myself as I whimper and spread my legs a little wider, giving him better access. Some switch inside him flips and he goes from considerate lover to primal beast in a millisecond. He shoves the chemise up over my hips and pulls my panties aside, then I’m on my hands and knees on the bed, and I don’t know how I got there. The room turns a burning cold. I’m not sure if it’s my own fear coming to life, or Christian, or an overactive imagination.
    He’s behind me now. The room is silent except for his heaving breaths. For a moment I experience a touch of vertigo and have the brief sensation that the room is