Page 22 of Use Me Up

I let out a sigh.

He rains kisses up and down my neck. “See? Maybe facing away is better for both of us, hmm?”

I sag into him, my breath hitching, moans slipping between my lips, and it is easier this way to make noise and to let his fingers master me, but then maybe it’s only because I feel less self-conscious. And maybe his fingers are less mechanical, maybe he’s stroking and teasing me in a more natural way.

“Will you get wet from this?” he asks me. “I want to get you very wet, Hannah. You were wet for me last night, and I barely did anything, but that was probably dumb luck. Does this work for you?”

I just moan. I feel too embarrassed to know how to answer.

“Come on, Hannah,” he says, breath hot on my ear. “Yes or no. Help me out here.”

“If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” I manage breathlessly.

“I just said I want to get you wet,” he says. “Especially if you’re sore. Is there a better way to get you wet than this?”

“I don’t… know.” What does he think I do, make note of my own arousal like that? Usually, I put the vibrator there, think about Sam Reid as Lestat, with the French accent, telling me that I have to tilt my neck further to one side because he wants to bite me and then, you know, it happens, usually pretty quick.

No, I have never really examined why I like to masturbate to someone killing me.

Blood drinking is basically metaphorical sex, of course, but I think the danger part makes it hotter for me or something.

Before Sam Reid, it was usually Ian Somerhalder as Damon Salvatore. I liked that show when I was a kid, even though my mother said I probably shouldn’t be watching it after she caught some of one episode. I was ten years old, and maybe that was too young.

Maybe that’s sort of why it’s always vampires, though? It got in me really young, right during my burgeoning sexual development?

He scoffs. “You don’t know?”

“I just use a vibrator and it doesn’t matter if I’m wet. It’s not like I insert things!”

He lets go of me.

I turn to face him.

His gaze gets stuck on my breasts, and I like that, like him looking at me with any kind of interest.

“Bed,” he says in a guttural voice. “Everything off, face down, now.” He tears his gaze from my body.

I don’t know what to make of that. I go to his bed. He’s got the upper drawer of his dresser open. He tosses little tubes out of it, onto the bed. I lean forward and realize it’s different kinds of lube.

“Get yourself ready for me,” he says. “And play with yourself. When I come back in here, I’m going to climb onto the bed and pull your legs apart, and I want to see your finger wriggling around on your clit.”

Okay, that’s hot, and I like that. But also, “Where are you going?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Pants off, on the bed, lubed and slippery for me, touching yourself.” He leaves the room.

I’m curious. I could go after him, but it is hot, and my nipples are tingling and so, I take off my pants and sort through the lube. I decide on the aloe vera one, applying it liberally to my vagina.

Ooh. I am sore.

I feel a little apprehensive, but I just put more lube on. I swipe it onto my clit, and that’s nice. I’ve never masturbated with lube before, but maybe I should.

I lay face down on the bed, one hand tucked in to touch my clit and another teasing one of my nipples, and I don’t think about Sam Reid, I think about Ellis. I think about him saying, I’ll do better. I promise. I think about him saying that I can stand in the doorway of his nest and be his magazine.

He comes back into the room. “Oh, good girl,” he says, climbing up over me, bracketing my body. He kisses the nape of my neck. “Such an obedient girl, aren’t you, Hannah?”

I moan. My fingers move wildly on my body.

“You playing with yourself?” he murmurs.