by Kallysten
Almost, but not quite.
He picked me up again. This time, we didn’t go far. He set me on the bed, and I only had time to slide further toward the middle of the mattress before he was inside me. I didn’t even see him move. His burst of speed was breathtaking—or maybe it was the feeling of being filled once more, his thick cock stretching me again. He pulled back right away and, without thinking, I clutched his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.
He took a few fast thrusts, each hard enough to make me cry out. My inner walls tightened around his cock as my body tried to capture him along with more pleasure.
I stopped him with four stammered words.
“This… this is next time.”
I couldn’t say what came upon me. Maybe it was because he hadn’t let me offer him my blood, but I knew he wanted this. Maybe I wanted to give him something else, something more, something I’d never shared with anyone else and that would be ours only. Or maybe I wanted it for me. I’d never trusted anyone to touch me there and make it feel good, but if anyone could, it had to be Morgan. And yes, I did trust him with all that I had, all that I was.
I don’t know if he heard any of that in my words or saw it on my face, but he stilled mid-thrust and watched me, his eyes wide, hungry, gleaming with something I wasn’t sure I could name.
“Oh, Angelina.” He practically purred my name. Rather than pulling away as I expected him to, he lowered himself on top of me, then rolled us to our sides. He was still inside me, and when he guided my leg on top of his with gentle hands, he opened me more to his now slow, shallow thrusts.
“How do you always manage to surprise me?” he murmured in between small kisses lavished upon my face.
I grinned and captured his lips for a deeper kiss. It was nice to know I could surprise him when he always seemed so collected and aloof.
We kept it at that. Small slips and slides, kisses, caresses from our fingertips. Sweet, slow, and perfect right until the moment when we found pleasure again, together. There’d be other ‘next times.’
As we lay together, our bodies still joined though now immobile, I watched him watch me, and could almost see myself reflected in the darkness of his eyes. I could see us. And I liked what I saw. It didn’t matter what he was or how we’d come to be together. What mattered was how good I felt right there in his arms.
Words started to bubble up inside me. I was loath to break the gentle silence that bathed us, but at the same time if I didn’t say it now, I knew I’d regret it. I began with one whispered word.
“Morgan?”
He raised a hand to my cheek and caressed it with a finger.
“Angelina?” he said in that low, rumbling voice, and oh, it wasn’t fair that he could affect me so much with nothing more than my name.
I unconsciously arched toward him, and he pressed back. He wasn’t ready quite yet, but soon… I took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I don’t want you to believe I’m trying to force your hand. You don’t have to say anything. Nothing has to change. I just want to say this aloud. At times you really irritate me, and when you close yourself off, I get so mad I could scream at you until I’m blue in the face.”
When his lips started to curl up into a grin, I knew he was about to tease me, so I pressed a finger to his lips to shush him preemptively.
“But when you open up,” I continued, “when you let me in, when you stop hiding and let me see the real you… I think I’m falling… No. I’m already in love with you.”
His finger stopped stroking my face and remained there, a welcome presence. Surprise slowly took over his features like sunrise spreading on the horizon, and I couldn’t help but smile at how stunned he looked. Had he not seen this coming? Really?
I caressed his lips, then leaned forward to kiss him, just my smile against his mouth, as chaste as could be after everything we’d done tonight. I closed my eyes. I was happy.
*
At first, when my eyes opened, I couldn’t understand what was going on.
I wasn’t in my bed anymore. Morgan wasn’t asleep on the pillow next to me.
Instead, I was back in the dining room. Back in my intact party dress. Morgan was sitting in front of me, wearing his tuxedo, his jacket on the back of his chair.
He wasn’t looking at me, but at the ball of cotton in between his fingers.
I tried to convince myself I was dreaming. My unconscious mind had taken me back to earlier that night, that was all. Just a dream, and when I woke up I’d be back in bed with Morgan. I wanted to believe that. I wanted it to be true more than I wanted anything else in the world at that moment—even more than I wanted to leave the mansion. I closed my eyes tightly and told myself to go back to sleep, and that when morning came I’d wake next to Morgan.
I counted to ten. Then to twenty. My hands clenched in the fabric of my dress.
I remained in my chair, and I knew why. Of course I knew why. Part of me had known since the moment I opened my eyes, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
I wasn’t in a dream. This was real. This was reality.
It was everything that had come until now that had been a dream.
A fantasy.
Another one.
I don’t think I’d ever felt more betrayed than I did in that moment. More disappointed. You’ve followed my story so far, so I’m sure you understand. Maybe you even feel the same.
I’d understood why he did it the first time. Even now, I could see no other way he could have saved my life that first night. The second time, I had asked for it, because I was sure I’d never be able to fall asleep on my own. But tonight had been different.
There had been no emergency. My life had been in jeopardy earlier, but not anymore. There was no reason I could fathom for Morgan to throw us into a fantasy again instead of letting things evolve naturally between us. And, as far as I was concerned, things had evolved naturally. There wasn’t a single word or gesture I’d done tonight that was ‘only in a fantasy.’ Not this time. Not for me.
I’d told him I loved him. And the entire time, it had been happening in my head. He’d let me go through with that confession, knowing full well it wasn’t real. He’d stopped me from offering him my blood, but he’d let me say those words.
I wasn’t just betrayed and disappointed. I was mad, too.
“Why?”
If I hadn’t forced myself to murmur, I would have shouted. I opened my eyes again to look at Morgan. His gaze was still downcast, and he flinched as I repeated, “Why? Everything I said… everything I did… it was real for me. I’d have done it or said it anyway. Why would you do this again?”
He shook his head but didn’t look up or say a word. His refusal to acknowledge me angered me as much as the fact that he’d played with my head again.
“Look at me!” I snapped, my voice so shrill that I winced. “Explain why—”
“I don’t know!” His words were nearly a growl, like Irene’s had been before she left. He raised his head, and his eyes bore into me. “I don’t know, all right? I just…” He lowered his voice. “You were crying, and I didn’t know what to do. It was… easier.”
He stood and started to close the first-aid kit, like the conversation was over. It was anything but over. His explanation—big surprise there—explained nothing. I stood as well, pushing my chair back and standing, oh, so close to him.
“Easier?” I demanded. “It was easier to pretend to take me in your arms than to actually do it?”
He held my gaze as he simply said one word. One pain-filled, apologetic word.
“Yes.”
And just like that, in one word, one strike, he erased my anger. How could I be angry when he was as upset about what he’d done as I was?
He picked up the kit and strode back to the kitchen. Still reeling from the whiplash of emotions, I only followed him after a couple of seconds. I said his name when I pushed the swinging door. I’m not sure what I would have said after that, but it didn’t
matter. The kitchen was empty. He’d left through the other door. I thought about going after him, but even if I managed to find him, what then? If he didn’t want to talk to me, experience had proved there was little I could do to make him change his mind.
I couldn’t help but wonder… Who was he running away from? After this latest incursion into fantasy-land, and especially after what Irene had said, I suspected that he might be running from himself, from his own feelings, desires, and memories, more than he was running from me.
Feeling both confused and annoyed, I went back to my room. When I took off my dress, I couldn’t help but flash back to how tender Morgan’s hands had been when he had taken it off me—how rough and passionate when he’d torn the top. My skin ached from the phantom touch of his fingers.
It was late and I was exhausted, but I stepped into the shower and scrubbed every last inch of my body. It didn’t help much, and when I got out, I could have sworn I could still feel his caresses. I looked in the mirror, ready to call myself an idiot, but my eyes fell on the bruises at my neck, and my breath hitched in my throat. Four red-veering-on-purple dots on one side, slashed by vertical red lines, and a slightly bigger one opposite.
How close to getting my neck snapped or my windpipe crushed had I come tonight?
I’d known I was in danger, but somehow this very physical, visible proof reawakened the fear. Suddenly, my heart was pounding as fast as when Irene had held my life in her hands. The old claustrophobia was resurfacing, too. I needed space. I needed air. And I needed a smoke.
I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, slipped my bare feet into ankle boots, and fled my own room. Without thinking, I started toward the stairs that led to the rooftop sun room, but I made a small detour by the dining room. Morgan had left his jacket on the back of a chair. I’m not proud of it, but I went through his pockets and was relieved to find what I was looking for: his cigarettes.
I also found something else. Something that distracted me. Something I wasn’t looking for, but I took it anyway: his cell phone.
I climbed the stairs with my eyes glued to the phone’s screen. It wasn’t locked. My need for a smoke forgotten for now, I thumbed through it, and it didn’t take me long to find what I wanted. Miss Delilah’s number was the first in his contacts.
Did I call her? Come on, now. I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I knew what she could make me do with just a few words in that compelling voice of hers. I had no desire to check whether it worked over the phone because, really, why wouldn't it?
No, I didn't call, but I did send her a text message. And I might have implied I was someone else. And lied. So sue me.
Mother was here tonight. She agreed to let Angelina go.
I took a deep breath before pressing the send button. My fingers twitched, seeking the familiar feel of a cigarette between them, but I left the pack in my pocket and sat in one of the armchairs. Oblivious to my paradise-like surroundings, I kept my eyes on the screen, waiting, hoping desperately for an answer at the same time as I told myself all the reasons why I might not get one any time soon. She might not have her phone with her. What time was it in France? Early morning? Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she’d know right away it was a lie and wouldn’t bother answering. Maybe…
The phone vibrated, and I almost jumped out of my skin.
What were her words exactly?
Did that mean she didn’t believe me—or rather, she didn’t believe Morgan’s message? Or was there a code word or something that would tell her that, yes, Irene had indeed agreed to my release? I thought my heart might break free from my chest.
You think I remember her exact words? I was too busy trying to calm Angelina down after Mother scared her half to death. When are you flying in?
I could feel sweat pearling on my forehead. Lying to my former boss, who happened to be a vampire, while impersonating her brother on a ‘borrowed’ phone… I wasn’t getting out of this one with a glowing recommendation letter, was I?
As soon as Mother confirms it.
Damn it. My hands shook so much I had to correct three typos even though all I typed was, Don’t you trust me?
So far, she had answered each message almost instantly. This time, it took a few moments before her reply appeared.
Smart girl. Nice try but no cookie.
I swallowed hard. She knew. She didn’t just know it was all a lie; she knew it was me. I stared at the phone, unsure whether to say anything else—or even what I could say. A new message popped up.
Does Morgan know you borrowed his phone, Angelina?
No
Naughty girl! What other naughty things have you and Morgan been up to? Any biting yet?
Without knowing it, she was hitting much too close to home. When I didn’t reply, she continued, and I could almost hear her voice in my head, could see her amused grin.
He’s a very good biter, you know. He can make it soooo good when he wants to. And it’s been so long, I bet he REALLY wants to by now. Enjoy it when
I shut the phone and set it down on the table. I didn’t want to read anything more. I couldn’t bear to read anything more. Every word was a reminder of the conversation Morgan and I hadn’t really had. I’d been seconds away from offering him my blood… and the entire time he’d been playing me.
Also, the sexual undertones in her words were too thick for comfort.
Jumping back to my feet, I pulled the cigarettes from my pocket and crossed the sun room without pausing to admire the new blooms. I’d noticed Morgan never smoked in here, and I thought I understood why: the sun room smelled wonderful, with the scents of different orchids melding in a fragrant perfume. Adding cigarette smoke to that mix would have been sacrilegious.
It took me a few moments to find the door that led to the actual roof—the doors, I should say, since a small, glass intermediary room served to preserve the warm temperature of the sun room. When I stepped outside, I let out a small gasp of surprise, and it rose in front of me in a white cloud. I hadn’t been outside in days, and I had almost forgotten that it was winter in New York.
I wished I had taken Morgan’s jacket, but the sweatshirt would have to suffice for a cigarette. Even better, it might force me to keep it to one. In the state I was in, and even after all those years without a single cigarette, I could easily see myself going through the entire pack, one after the other. I felt a small jolt when I pulled from the pack the lighter I’d given him and remembered the kisses that had followed. Those, at least, had been real.
I lit up right outside the door and closed my eyes when the first burst of nicotine hit the back of my throat. It was heaven. Poisoned, cancerous heaven, but heaven nonetheless. Or at least, it was for a few seconds, until gentle but firm fingers tugged the cigarette from my lips and the pack from my hand.
My eyes snapped open. Morgan was in front of me, close enough that, when he brought the cigarette to his lips, he had to turn his head to one side.
“Smoking is bad for you, Angelina,” he said in his rumbling voice as he exhaled.
I tried to reach for the cigarette again, but he threw it on the ground and stepped on it. The pack disappeared in one of his pockets. He looked at me, his eyes darker than the night around us, and I couldn’t have said whether I shivered because of that look or because it was so cold.
“Smoking is not the only thing that’s bad for me,” I murmured.
The shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Very true. Should we get inside before you catch your death?”
“What would you care? At least you’d be rid of me.”
So yes, I was back to being mad. Or rather, I wanted to be mad. It was easier that way, and things were all about being easy, weren’t they?
That manufactured anger disappeared in a flash when Morgan leaned in slowly, until his lips were brushing against my earlobe in something that wasn’t exactly a kiss.
“Angelina,” he murmured right into my ear. “Please. Get inside. You’re freezing.”
His fingers brushed my hand, and for once, we were the same temperature.
I took in a shaky breath, turned away, and opened the first door. He entered after me, closed the door behind him, and we walked into the sun room together. The humid heat was a shock after the cold December air, and even under the sweatshirt, my skin erupted into goose bumps—or maybe it was from how close he was behind me.
Without speaking, we crossed the room. When we reached the circle of chairs and chaise lounge in the center, he picked up the phone from the table and gave me a sharp look. I held his gaze with my chin high, daring him to make a thing of it. He didn’t and sprawled in one of the armchairs, frowning at the screen as he thumbed through it. He was reading my conversation with Miss Delilah, no doubt about that, but he still didn’t comment before shutting off the phone.
“I had to try,” I said, towering over him with my arms crossed over my chest.
He shrugged.
“All right. But if it was that easy, don’t you think I’d have tried already?”
There was that word again. Easy. He liked things to be easy, didn’t he?
“Are you going to tell me why you did it?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “‘It was easier’ isn’t really an answer.”
He snorted softly and looked away.
“As soon as I figure it out for myself, sure.”
That took me aback. I’d been sure he had a reason. A bad reason, no doubt, but some kind of thought behind what still felt like a betrayal. Could it be true that he hadn’t been thinking?
“Was it because you were upset?” I insisted. “Because Irene wouldn’t let me go?”
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
“No. It had nothing to do with Irene. Or Lilah for that matter.”
My heart stammered. Did that mean it had to do with me? That he’d wanted to be with me?
But if that was the case, why create another daydream? If he’d held me, kissed me—really kissed me—I wouldn’t have pushed him away. I hadn’t tried to hide that I was attracted to him. In the last few days, we’d grown closer. Or at least I thought we had.
