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Rey has always dreamt of magical things. Visions of fantastical creatures, epics enriched by a deep tradition of lore. These are what sustained her through years in the foster care system. Belonging to no one (nowhere) but her books and her vivid imagination.
So why is this so different?
She has to remind herself that this is different because it’s real. She’s standing in his kitchen. Her fingers are still numb from touching his frigid skin, frantically trying to find a pulse where none exists.
Childhood games and a searing wish for it all to be true are not the same as confronting the reality of it.
***
Rey has never been to a Twilight fan convention. In fact, one might argue she isn’t even a fan of Twilight. Sure, she read the books. In middle school and high school. A dying reading light under the scratchy cotton sheets of whatever foster home she was in. She’s even seen the movies. Actually, she’s seen the movies a lot, because Rose insists on showing them to her on repeat. Rose also insists on sending her Twilight renaissance TikToks, screwing up Rey’s algorithm slowly but surely so that now she only receives videos full of intricate fan theories and plot gaffes.
She’s too nice to tell Rose to stop.
She’s also too nice to tell Rose, “No, I don’t want to go with you.” Rose has looked forward to this convention for months after finding the link on a subreddit. And she wants to share it with Rey, her best friend. So how can Rey say no? She can’t.
Especially when the roots of their friendship consist of Rose exposing Rey to pop culture events that Rey missed growing up. Freshman year of college they lived on the same floor. Sometime during orientation week, they were both in a group of people, all of whom were discussing the rise of Miley Cyrus. And Rey had nothing to contribute. Rose came up to her immediately after the group disbursed and insisted on showing Rey the important episodes of Hannah Montana, culminating with a viewing of The Last Song. It continued like this where every week Rose made Rey sit down and watch an important piece of pop culture.
So, a Twilight convention isn’t too bad. Well, it sort of is in the sense that Rey doesn’t want to go, but she can suffer through it for Rose, who’s made sure that Rey never misses out on a reference or a joke.
At least they don’t have to travel; they can take the metro to the event in Pentagon City. Despite it being marketed as a “convention,” the event space is not a convention center or even a hotel, but a church basement. A location perhaps antithetical to a weekend-long event dedicated to the undead.
They head to the Friday night registration after they get off work. The whole evening is meant for mingling and welcoming remarks.
The crowd is surprising. Rey’s never been to a convention (though it’s becoming increasingly clear that this should not be thought of as a convention), but she’s been under the impression that one requires tens of thousands of fans, all in varying degrees of cosplay, yelling wildly.
Instead, she and Rose are met with people ranging from early twenties to late thirties, some in cosplay, but most looking like Rey does, having just come from work. There’s about a hundred people, chatting, admiring the overly done decorations.
The white painted cement block walls have been covered with movie posters and faux cobwebs (which Rose tells her “is not in keeping with the lore of the books”). Cardboard cut-outs of the actors have been spread out. Tables with coffee and food line the sides, with people milling around the room. A podium sits in the back, but there are no chairs. Clearly, the space isn’t meant to accommodate this many people. Everyone will have to stand once check-in ends and the organizers make a speech or something.
They’re in line to pick-up their nametags. Rose practically vibrates with excited energy, taking in the atmosphere, and commenting on it for Rey.
“The organizers’ commitment to the blue tone hue for the decorations is really commendable.”
Rey snorts. “I think that’s just the room. Kind of sallow.”
Rose elbows her as they move forward. “You need to loosen up. This is exciting; we’re going to meet new people.” She gestures to the room.
“Why would I want to meet new people?” she asks.
But she’s spoken too soon. If his voice didn’t draw her attention, then his sheer size would have. Standing several people in front of them are two men: one tall with black hair, and one much shorter, though who is probably just normal-person height.
His lush black hair settles just below his chin – a contrast to his pale skin. She’s never seen hair like that on a guy. Or maybe she has, but it didn’t look the same. This is Plato’s original form. Anything else would be a lackluster imitation.
He passes a lethal glare to his shorter companion. “The North American Society of Calligraphy? Really? Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
The shorter man shrugs. “It’s important to engage with youth culture.”
“Youth culture?” The words break through gritted teeth. “Are you kidding—” He freezes. Slowly, he turns his head toward her and Rose.
She finally gets a better view. He’s attractive, but he probably shouldn’t be. His features almost lack cohesion, right on the brink of discord. She doesn’t know where to look first: the trails of moles and beauty marks dotting his skin; the strong length of his nose; the sharp contours of his cheekbones, gaunt; the pucker of too-red lips; or his nearly black eyes, like his pupils have dilated too far and can’t be reigned back in.
He surveys the people behind him before his focus lands on Rey and then stays on her. Her breath quickens. As if in response, his nostrils flare and his lips thin. Violently, he jerks his head away.
“Rey?” Rose asks. “Are you okay?”
She blinks at her friend, who’s frowning at her. “What? Yeah. Yeah.”
The tall man hunches over, speaking with his friend in tones too low for her to hear. The muscles in his back are taut, fraught with tension that wasn’t there before their eye contact. All too soon, the two men check-in and go beyond her eye line.
In the several minutes it takes for her and Rose to get to the check-in table, she wills herself to calm down. The physical distance from him helps school her reaction. It’s not a big deal; he’s just some guy she thinks is cute. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.
That doesn’t stop her, though, from scanning the room for him once she and Rose slap “Hello, my name is” stickers on their chests.
“Ooh, iced tea!” Rose takes her hand and leads her to one of the snack tables, where she immediately strikes up a conversation with a woman whose name tag reads Kaydel. “I love your earrings.”
The woman blushes. “Really? You don’t think they’re too much?”
Upon closer look, Rey’s willing to venture they’re entirely too much. From each ear dangles a square with the identical image of the baby Renesmee.
Rose grins. “No, they’re totally cool.” She moves closer. “I’m Rose, and this is my friend Rey.”
Hearing the subtle emphasis on “friend,” Rey finally understands why they’re there. Where else can Rose meet the emo goth princess of her middle school dreams? For all that Rose is incredibly outgoing and bubbly, she doesn’t date. Sometimes Rey thinks it’s unfortunate that Rose was saddled with an introverted, verging on misanthropic best friend instead of the go-getter she deserves. Rey never pushes her to go out and meet people, despite how lonely she knows Rose gets.
Though not incredibly gifted at making friends, Rey does her best to wing woman. “Rose is the real fan, though. Her knowledge is encyclopedic.”
Kaydel beams. “Really?” She pops her hip, showing off a short, black velvet dress with fishnets. Exactly Rose’s type.
As Rose and Kaydel discuss the lack of diversity in the movie franchise’s casting, Rey catches a blob from the corner of her eye, too tall to be anyone but him. She’s almost unable to stop herself from meandering to the corner he occupies with his friend, far across the room from Rose and Kaydel, who don’t seem to notice her leaving. It’s magnetic the way she’s drawn to him.
As she gets closer, bits of his conversation become audible.
“You’ve got to stop freaking out,” his friend says.
“You are the most useless …”
She misses whatever the man says next. Now, just a few feet away – probably gawking like an idiot – she breathes him in through her nose. His scent muddles her senses. Her eyes blur then her vision refocuses, but the aroma of cardamom paired with cedar still overwhelms her. Her pulse quickens and a heat spreads throughout her body until it reaches her panties. Is it normal to have such a visceral reaction to someone’s smell?
Everything in her body chants to go up to him, to talk to him. All of her instincts tell her that he is important. An irrational fear settles in her stomach, clenching painfully: What if this is all the time she gets with him? She has to soak in every bit now.
Just like in line, he turns to where she stands, though this time his eyes find her immediately. His nostrils flare again, and he clenches his jaw.
Nonsensically, she worries he can smell the arousal pooling in her cotton underwear. But that would be crazy, right?
Her body propels her forward, dragging her even further into his orbit.
“Well, hello there,” his friend says.
Forcing herself to look away from him, she processes the friend’s expression: oddly gleeful with a hint of smug.
“Hi.” Her voice comes out in a squeak, so she clears her throat. “Hi.” Much lower. “I’m Rey.”
“I’m Poe,” the friend says. “This is Ben.”
She looks up at Ben – Ben – practically craning her neck. His expression screams discomfort, but still a feeling of safety blankets her.
“Big Twilight fans?” she asks, despite having overheard their conversation in line.
Some of the tension in Ben’s face dissolves. “You couldn’t tell? I’m the target demographic.”
Oh. He’s funny. “My roommate would argue that anyone can like Twilight.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Even you?”
“In theory.”
It’s hard to believe he’s actually talking to her. Her limbs shake from excitement. It’s an adrenaline rush. (Rose’s voice enters her head to quote Edward Cullen: “It’s very common. You can google it.”)
A wide smile breaks out across her face. She becomes slightly self-conscious, however, when he just stares at her. He looks a little gobsmacked. And then, as if he isn’t fully in control, he closes the gap between them.
“I’m going to find a snack,” Poe says.
Ben steps back. “That’s not funny.” He glares at Poe (this seems to happen a lot).
Poe grins. “I think I’m hilarious.” Then he walks out of her line of sight.
Unsure of the joke, she ignores it. Instead, she breathes in through her nose again. The heady rush of Ben weaves its way through her body, heating her from the inside out.
He looks stricken, almost like he knows what’s going on with her body. A dazed look enters his eyes, and the air grows thick with something she can’t name but knows comes from him.
What is happening to her? She’s never heard of anything like this.
Shaking herself from must be a pheromone-driven stupor, she asks, “Do you, uh, live around here?”
If he finds this question odd, he doesn’t show it. He shuts his eyes tightly, fists clenched by his sides.
God, she didn’t even notice his hands before. They’re huge.
Her pussy clenches involuntarily.
As if he can sense it, his nostrils flare.
They stand in silence until the air around them calms.
He opens his eyes, remarkably more in control. “No. I’m in the city.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” She wants to tell him exactly where she lives. It’s suddenly very important that he knows where to find her.
He’s angled his whole body toward her, his eyes boring into hers. The eyebrows furrow, but it seems to be in concentration rather than distress.
No one, to her knowledge, has ever looked at her so intensely. It gives her hope that whatever is happening to her body is happening to him, too.
“Are you from the area?” It’s the best thing she can come up with.
A minute shake of the head. “Chicago.” He doesn’t even seem to register that he's spoken. His focus is fully on her.
“Oh. I’ve never been. Cold, though. Right? Colder than here?” The furthest west she’s ever gone is Detroit on a layover to Toronto (it was cheaper than flying direct).
“Yes.” His gaze doesn’t waver.
No longer forcing herself to make conversation – he clearly doesn’t mind just staring – she moves in a step, until they are really and truly standing much too close for two strangers.
Without thinking about it, she grabs his hand.
She gasps, immediately dropping it.
It’s ice cold.
“You’re freezing,” she says. It makes no sense. The room is toasty, and outside is unseasonably warm for April.
“Sorry. I have, um, poor circulation.” He flexes his hand.
Oh. That makes sense. If you’re as big as him, it must be hard for veins to reach every limb adequately.
Because all rational thinking has left her, she gets the brilliant idea to help him out with this. She takes his hand between both of hers as best she can – it’s more of a paw – and squeezes it, trying to impart the warmth of her skin. Despite the iciness, his skin is smooth. That’s odd; usually cold hands are a little dry. She squeezes down his fingers, rubbing his knuckles, but he doesn’t get any warmer.
So focused on her task, she misses that thickness in the air – same as before – getting stronger. When she takes a deep breath through her nose, she stops and looks up at him, inundated by his scent.
His eyes are wide – and so dark she can’t find even the slimmest ring of color. A choked breath, he snatches his hand away. He tries to back up but hits a wall. He sandwiches his hands behind him, between his lug of a body and the cement block wall.
The scent changes. It tells her to comfort him.
What is this? What does this mean?
“Don’t be afraid,” she says; he looks a second away from bolting. “I feel it, too.”
He whimpers.
She goes closer and cradles his jaw with both hands. She doesn’t know why she does this, she isn’t sure how she knows to do it. It’s as if an old part of her brain – her hindbrain – commands her to.
The effect is immediate. A long sigh escapes him. He leans into her touch, the rigidity of his neck and his jaw eases. The pheromone-crowded air crumbles. His eyes close. “Rey,” he says.
Her thumbs rub his cheeks.
“Okay, kids. Maybe you should take this somewhere else,” Poe says, clapping a hand on both of their shoulders.
The bubble they’ve been in pops.
The rest of the world returns to her. Rose. She takes away her hands then frantically searches the room for her. How long has she stood here with Ben? Two minutes? Half an hour? People still mill about, the room even further past maximum capacity than before. She feels supremely ridiculous having such an intimate moment surrounded by people in capes. Some have red or gold contacts in. (Rose’s voice comes back with another quote: “It’s the fluorescents.”)
“My roommate,” she says under her breath.
“Rose?” Poe’s voice supplies.
She turns back to him, frowning. “How do you know that?”
He grins. (What a stupidly happy person.) “She saw you with us and cornered me when I went for a snack. She and the woman she was with are over there.” He points to two heads entrenched in the growing crowd.
“Oh. Okay.” Feeling less like a person possessed and more like an average person in her twenties, she smiles up at Ben. “Do you want to exchange numbers?”
He nods vigorously.
***
That night, she and Rose do a happy dance when they get home.
“He was seriously hot,” Rose says.
Rey can hardly believe her luck; hot people aren’t usually into her (which is a stupid thing to think anyway, because hot people don’t behave as a conglomerate). Instead, she says, “You’re one to talk. How about Kaydel?”
Rose blushes.
She lets Rey skip the rest of the convention now that she has Kaydel to go with her. This is fine by Rey, who knows for a fact Ben has no plans to continue going (she has a text from him to prove it).
It takes her very little time to ascertain that Ben is a bad texter. It becomes especially clear that Monday when he calls her in the middle of a text conversation.
Rey’s in the kitchen, flipping burgers in a pan after a long day at work. She’s waiting for Ben to confirm if he actually does want to get together and do something.
Surprised to see his caller ID, she picks up. “Hello?” When was the last time someone called her and it wasn’t a social security scam?
“Rey? It’s Ben,” he says. He sounds a little nervous. “Is it okay that I called?”
His voice has an incredible calming effect on her. The stress from work evaporates.
She places the phone between her shoulder and her ear, hunching slightly as she monitors the patty progress. “Yeah. It’s … refreshing.”
He huffs. “I’m going to tell you something, and you can’t laugh.”
Intrigued, she grins to herself. “I’ll try my best.”
“I can’t use my phone,” he confides.
She flips one burger, relishing the satisfying sizzle of the fat. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. I don’t know how. This is probably down to several factors.”
“I’m all ears.” She flips the other one, too. Rose made her dinner last week, so now Rey’s returning the favor. And if Rose doesn’t want the burger, Rey can just eat it herself. Either way she’ll get brownie points.
“For one thing, my fingers are too big, and the screen is too small.”
The thought of his meaty hands makes her shiver. “That is probably true. You’re a big guy.”
There’s a long breath. “Right. The other issue is that it keeps updating before I’m used to what I have.”
She laughs. “How old are you?”
“Um, why?” He sounds nervous, again. “Is that—is this bad? Poe says I’m not with it enough.”
Inspecting the meat, she decides the patties are ready. “As in lucid? You’re not lucid enough?”
“What? No. I don’t know all the latest stuff. Slang.”
“Hence the youth culture,” she says, turning off the burner.
A low hum. “You heard that?”
She cringes, realizing she gave herself away. “Ben, let’s get back to why you called.”
“Right. Right. I’m 29, by the way. Just so you know. Totally 29.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were 40,” she quips.
He gives a forced loud laugh.
She frowns. Is he high right now? “Ben, are you calling to ask me out or not?”
“I am actually,” he says, “calling to ask you in.”
***
The plan is to go over to Ben’s that Friday. She’s incredibly giddy. He calls her each preceding night. He’s clearly thinking the same thing that she is: if they have another intense bodily reaction, there might not be a lot of talking. So, they get to know each other like this, sometimes for hours on end.
Her initial impression of him was right: he is funny. But not in the way that Rose is, constantly quoting things. Ben’s sense of humor is so dry she almost misses it. He’s forthcoming about some things (he works remotely, he lives alone) but not about others (his upbringing, his family). He’s also a good listener. Talking over the phone makes it easier to tell him about herself. She divulges things within days that it took her months (even years) to say to Rose.
She finds she actually likes him. When they first met, it was less liking and more needing. But she actually likes him. He asks about her day because he cares, not because it’s a standard form of address. He listens and offers questions on the smallest details, such as a conversation in the breakroom cursorily mentioned.
Once he asks if she wants to see what’s on TV together, and she has to confess that she doesn’t have cable. (Honestly, it strikes her as odd that he does. In an era of streaming services, who pays for a cable package?)
Rose, too, has her own giddiness circulating the apartment. She talks to Rey about Kaydel every spare minute she has. She and Kaydel both like the same Pho place in Columbia Heights. Kaydel has also always wanted to try roller derby. She and Kaydel are going to see a movie at the Uptown Theater.
It’s nice. And Kaydel seems nice. She comes around briefly one night that week to pick up Rose for the movie (this time wearing normal earrings), and carries on a regular conversation with Rey, despite Rey’s social ineptitude coming to the front.
If anything, though, seeing Kaydel and Rose together makes her that much more excited for her own date. When Friday rolls around, she makes sure she looks good. Her best jeans, sneakers, and a cute top, plus makeup. She watches a few tutorials on YouTube to draw the perfect cat eye, but after several failed attempts she gives up.
She arrives right on time and he buzzes her in. When he opens the apartment door, she loses all thought. He takes up the whole frame, his hair silky, hanging low in his face. He has on well-fitting jeans – god, his thighs – and a black sweater that showcases his every muscle, his every ridge.
He also struggles with speech; he stares at her in awe.
That thing with the air happens again, where she can smell something strong emanating from him. She breathes it in and lets it fill her body, getting warm all over. Without realizing it, she keens.
The noise rouses him. “Please, come in.”
If she thought his apartment would give her clues into his life, she was wrong. It’s practically spartan. The walls are beige, and there’s nothing hung up on them. No graduation photos. No diplomas. No paintings. No posters. All of his furniture is black and from Ikea. It doesn’t look like a home. It looks makeshift. This is what she would’ve expected from a man in his early or mid-twenties. But a guy who’s nearly 30?
“Can I get you anything to drink?” His voice is low, a deep grumble behind her.
Turning, she shakes her head. “No. No thanks.”
Just like at the convention, they stare at each other. What were they even supposed to do again? She wracks her brain until recalling the promise of food and a movie.
(“Are you inviting me to Netflix and chill?” she asked him, laughing a little.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” he responded.)
Now, she can’t imagine wanting to eat anything. That isn’t what her body needs.
With each passing moment, the air gets thicker and thicker with what has to be his pheromones. Her body thrums. She places her hands on his shoulders. He grits his teeth at the physical contact. He needs to lean down if they’re going to kiss, but he seems to be fighting the urge, his jaw taut.
Her hands slide down his clothed chest slowly, feeling the points of his nipples, taking in every ridge of his abdomen before slipping underneath the sweater.
Ben’s breathing stutters. His body yields beautifully under her touch.
Her palms go up and down his frosty skin, trying to warm him with little success. As she ventures up, her fingers skate along the parallel bones of his ribcage before gliding along the swell of his pecs. Then, delicately, she places her thumbs on his nipples and presses down.
He growls.
She goes to look up at him but he’s already kissing her. One hand tangled in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist, bringing their lower bodies together as he leans over her.
His lips are hard and insistent, sucking at her own brutally, nose bashed against hers. Then his teeth come out, pulling at her bottom lip, almost like he wants her to bleed.
Even his lips are cold, but she feels so feverish that it’s refreshing.
The air swamps her senses so that all she can think of is this, this, this. Her fingers start plucking at his nipples and he draws their lower bodies even closer together so that his hardness pokes her belly. With every harsh draw of her fingers, he groans and sucks at a new part of her lips.
After one particularly prolonged assault on his nipples, he places his hands on her shoulders and removes himself. His grip is tight, though, like he can’t bear to let go.
Still not able to think rationally, she frowns. “What is it?”
“We shouldn’t. Not like this.” He grimaces, and finds the strength to release her.
Not like what? “Oh.” Is he super religious? “Is this too fast?”
He screws his eyes shut, just like at the convention, then opens them again. This time, though, it doesn’t seem to have helped. The air is still overrun with something that makes her want to jump him. “No, I just … I want to know you.”
It’s a little difficult to process. Her horniness is getting in the way. How can he not want this as badly as she does? “We talked on the phone all week,” she points out.
Oh god, she sounds like someone in a Title IX educational skit, trying to coerce someone into having sex with them. It slightly panics her, which dissipates some of the arousal.
Once again, like he can sense she’s worried, his eyes widen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Weird.
“No,” she says. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re saying no.”
He wipes his hands down his face. “I … yeah. I guess.” When he takes his hands away, his eyes watch her lustfully. “I should be saying no. I really should be.”
“Okay,” she says. He is so cryptic. “We don’t have to do anything.”
A pained expression overwhelms him. “But I want to. I want to make you feel good. I just don’t want to go too far tonight.”
It’s very thoughtful. Men aren’t usually thoughtful or careful with Rey. But Ben is. Her panic disappears. The heat builds up in her again. “If you’re sure.”
He nods. “Positive.”
Then his lips are on hers. He hoists her up, carrying her in some direction (hopefully to his bed). Legs wrapped around his waist, her hands tangle in his hair – which is just as soft as it seems. Her tongue traces his lips. She kisses her way to an ear before sucking a lobe into her mouth as hard as she can.
She realizes that they’ve stopped moving. He seems to be doing something. Breaking from her current task, she sees they’re in front of his bed. He’s laying down a fuzzy blanket.
“Just so you’re warm.” He gives her a worried look. “Just want you to be warm.” Then he leans forward again, kissing her, pressing their chests together. “You’re so perfect like this.” He moves down to her neck. He hums against her jugular, then licks a slow stripe up against it. “So good. Your skin tastes so good, Rey.”
He deposits her down on the blanket. Standing over her, he removes his shirt. Not ripped, but definitely toned. Meaty muscles speckled with moles. His arms are positively juicy. She aches to kiss them.
She takes off her own top, leaving her in a black bra.
His jaw drops. “Fuck, you look so good.” He leans down to kiss her, their torsos against each other once more.
The coldness of his skin soothes her, that’s how hot she is. She probably doesn’t even need the blanket. They’ll ruin it with whatever they’re about to do, anyway.
He hovers over her, sliding his mouth along her clavicle. “So sweet here, too.” He sucks bruises in a line.
“Take off my bra, Ben.” It’s a needy whine.
His black eyes pierce hers. Reaching behind her to undo the clasp, he softly drags the straps down her arms, revealing her breasts. She gets the garment down all the way and flings it across the room.
His big hands come up, each one able to completely cover a tit. He massages them beneath his cold, calloused palms. The sharpness of the temperature makes her nipples grow impossibly harder.
She sounds like a wounded animal, whimpering. She can’t stop grinding herself against him, getting wetter and wetter.
Finally, he pinches her nipples. She keens, her hips moving spastically. He ducks down by her ear. “My baby likes that? She likes when I touch her cute little tits?”
“Uh huh,” she says, incapable of anything else.
He pinches one nipple then drags it up into the air before releasing it.
Her pussy gushes.
“Do you want my mouth there?” His breath tickles her ear.
Her clit frantically needing stimulation, she writhes against him. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Fuck.”
He ducks his head down, taking the neglected nipple between his teeth and pulling. To soothe any pain, his lips suckle it gently before he blows on it.
She bucks wildly against him. “Please, Ben. Please.”
He licks her jugular again. “Please what, baby?” He circles his hips into hers, his cock dipping into her cunt as much as it can between the layers of pants.
“The thing you said before,” she says. “About making me feel good. Need it so bad. I’m clean, I promise.”
A dark growl. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He presses a soft kiss to her cheek, giving each nipple one last suck, before his tongue finds the skin of her abdomen, eventually hovering over the waistline of her pants.
She props herself on her elbows, staring down at him. He looks at her for approval, his fingers play with the button.
“Take my pants off,” she says.
He slides the fabric down, taking her underwear with it, leaving her completely naked under him.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He moves away, bringing his head between her thighs, staring straight at her. “You have the prettiest little pussy.”
Wetness seeps out of her.
He inhales deeply, temporarily closing his eyes. When they open, he looks slightly crazed. “You smell amazing here.” A finger swipes a drop of her. She jolts, whimpering. He brings it to his mouth. “Tasty, too.”
Jaw hanging open, her nose gets clogged with whatever he’s feeling, crowding the air again. Her eyes roll backward.
His arms wrap around her thighs, his nose nuzzling her clit. “Just a few licks, Rey? I want to make you come. Tastes so good.”
He’s basically begging to go down on here. She mewls.
Burying his face in between her thighs, he treats her cunt to the same long licks he paid her neck. His tongue even dips inside, trying to coax more of her out. Completely lost in her body, his eyes close.
Her lungs have trouble breathing. Shock waves rocket through her with every pass of his tongue. By the time he traces her clit, sucking on it softly with his lips, tears stream down her cheeks. “Please, Ben.”
His eyes open. Momentarily abandoning his quest to map out the erogenous zones of her body, he asks, “What do you need?”
Her lips tremble. “Your finger, inside. Keep licking my clit.”
“A finger, huh?” He traces the outside of her cunt. The nailbed slips in. “So ready for me.” It’s not particularly hard to fit one finger, despite how much larger it is than hers. Her pussy practically pulls him in. He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Such a sweet, needy pussy.” He looks back up at her, smirking. “Want two?”
He’s torturing her. She’s a little annoyed but a lot turned on. “Yes,” she hisses, grabbing a hold of his head.
Two is a tougher fit, so he goes slowly for her. He lowers his mouth back to her clit. Soft suckles again, and then narrow licks around her bud. She groans. Her pussy gets so wet from this, his fingers manage to slip all the way inside.
“Good girl,” he rumbles against her clit, electricity shooting through each limb.
She moans. Her thighs are probably strangling him, and her grip is so firm on his head it’s a miracle she hasn’t yanked out all his hair yet.
He doesn’t do what some have done before him: go mindlessly in and out with his hands. He has finesse, almost intuitively knowing what she likes. He rubs against her walls in just the right ways, leisurely going in and out, allowing her cunt to clench around him when he touches the right spot or his tongue flicks with the perfect amount of pressure.
He works her until her cunt spasms uncontrollably. She sobs through her orgasm. Heat ignites her extremities. Her mind, which has been dizzy on his pheromones, now goes numb from the pleasure.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he says, then goes back to her clit.
In fact, his fingers don’t stop, not even when her orgasm subsides. His mouth, too, continues.
“Shit,” he says. “You got so tight again.” He’s still hasn’t stopped.
“Ben?” she whimpers. Her face is so hot it’s probably flaming.
A delicate kiss to her hipbone. “Rey, baby, can you come one more time?” His lips are swollen, puffy, her arousal dripping from them. “Thought of this all week. You taste so good, Rey. One more for me?” His eyes a deep black.
Even though she’s the one who just came, he looks absolutely wrecked.
Despite feeling sensitive, he touches her with such care that she thinks she might actually be able to. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay. I’ve never—”
He flattens his tongue against her clit and gives her a long lick. “That’s my m—" He bites down on his lip. "My good girl. My sweet, sweet Rey. Gonna make her little cunt come again.”
And he does. Within minutes, he makes her body shake. She clamps down on his two fingers. During this second orgasm, his tongue flicks her clit in a brutal, insistent pattern until it’s too much and she has to push his head away.
For a second, she thinks they might actually have penetrative sex because he unbuttons his jeans and slides his boxers down. Between broad thighs, roped with muscle, hangs his long, thick cock. Her cunt clenches, feeling unbelievably empty, despite having just come twice.
But he doesn’t move over her, instead he stands between her open thighs and grips his cock with one hand, the other, reaching into her cunt – making her jerk – and bringing her arousal to use as lube.
“Can I come on you, baby? Your sweet little tits?” His nostrils flare. His hand moves at a harsh pace, up and down, squeezing his cock tightly. The way his forearms flex as he takes himself should be illegal.
Her jaw drops. “Yes. Yes, anywhere you want.”
And it’s true; she will let him come wherever he wants. The breasts intrigue her, however. No one’s ever come there before. She wouldn’t mind his cum coating her already hard nipples, dribbling to the dip in her sternum, and then sliding down to her stomach. She wants to be drenched in him.
His eyes flash. “Anywhere? Even your tight cunt? You’d let my head into your little hole and come there? Put my cum in you?”
She moans. “Yes, please. Right now, if you want. You can just stick the tip in, if you want. Just to feel. I don’t know. If you want to.” All thoughts of her chest are gone. In its place is that voice from deep in her brain, the one that only exists when Ben is around, chanting for him to fill her up.
He grits his teeth. “Next time, baby. Next time. Now tell me how I made you feel.”
Knowing he needs more stimuli, she pinches her nipples. “So so hot. Ben, your mouth felt so good on me.”
“Yeah?” His wrist moves rapidly. “How good?” Desperation tinges his words; he’s getting close. His movements grow jerky.
“The best.” She twists her nipples, making him groan. “No one has ever made me come like that. You made me come so hard. And your fingers fill me up so good. So thick.”
His mouth hangs open, distraught at her words.
It encourages her. Pinching her nipples extra hard, she says, “But I wish it were your cock. Your cock would stretch me so good.”
This is what breaks him. He aims his cock over her breasts, letting pulse after pulse of his semen draw crisscrossed lines across her sternum.
Both of them take a few moments to breathe.
He can’t tear his eyes away from the mess he made on her. Almost trance-like, he takes his fingers and works his cum into her skin. Massaging it into her breasts, smearing it across her nipples, until it’s completely absorbed.
She lets out tiny whines but can’t stop watching him make her soak up his semen.
“Fuck,” he says, voice hoarse. He whispers something she can’t hear.
And then, though her chest is sticky, tacky with his cum, he licks a wide stripe up her sternum.
She gasps.
He looks up at her through sweaty locks, then moves to her mouth, giving her a languid kiss, letting his body press against hers. Though they’re naked against each other, and his cum is ingrained into her skin, the air no longer swarms with heady lust but with contentment. His thumb strokes her cheek.
He pulls away, the ends of his long hair tickling the edges of her face. He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I got kind of carried away there.”
She returns his smile. “I loved it.”
He places a soft kiss to her scalp. “Me, too.”
Then her stomach grumbles.
He bolts up, eyes concerned. “Fuck. I meant to feed you first.” He rubs a hand soothingly on her side. “I have a frozen pizza. Is that okay?”
Pizza sounds great right now. “Yes.”
Half an hour later, she’s in her underwear and one of his t-shirts, sitting on the living room couch while he watches her eat DiGiorno cheese pizza from a paper plate.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks. Now that her animalistic urges have been sated, it’s very much like talking on the phone with him, only better because she gets to be near him.
He shakes his head. “Not hungry.” He just stares at her, almost gawking.
She’s never worn a man’s shirt before – has never wanted to – but this is nice because it smells like Ben.
“Are you warm enough?” His eyebrows furrow.
She smiles. “I’m perfect.”
Grinning, he pulls her onto his lap. He grabs the remote and turns on his TV. “Now what are your feelings on Jeopardy!?”
***
April bleeds into May. And things are good with Ben. Better than good. She finally gets why Rose pushed her all those times to get out of her comfort zone. Though she hasn’t said it yet, she loves Ben. Sometimes her chest aches just from the thought of him.
She’s never believed in fate or destiny. How can she when the world has given her such a raw deal? And it’s not like she thinks it’s all worth it now that she’s found Ben. Nothing can make it better. But Ben feels like a balm, soothing aloe applied to a wound.
Though they still haven’t had penetrative sex, they spend several nights a week together, most of the time at Ben’s. They always stay in. Usually, they make each other come immediately, the tension between them too great. Afterwards, he dotes on her, heating up various frozen meals that he doesn’t eat.
They watch movies. They read books. She helps him with the crossword (which he isn’t very good at). He tries to teach her the basics of calligraphy.
Rose and Kaydel, however, are suspicious. Rey can feel it in their silent stares when she announces she’s going to Ben’s, or on the few occasions he comes over and sits across the table from them. It’s even more prevalent when he cancels plans at the last minute or says he can’t come to something.
It’s a Saturday in the middle of May when Ben texts that he will not be joining the three of them for a lunchtime picnic on the National Mall. The three women are in the tiny kitchen, putting together sandwiches and slicing fruits.
“Only three sandwiches,” Rey says. “Ben can’t come.”
The girlfriends exchange a look.
Rey scowls immediately, cutting the orange slices with an unnecessary fervor. “He probably thinks it’s kitschy or something. Too many tourists.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Kaydel says, though her expression is unconvinced.
Rose purses her lips while placing slices of roast beef on the whole grain bread. “It’s just, I’ve noticed a few things, Rey.”
Rey puts the knife down and stares. “I know you don’t like Ben. It’s obvious.” Her hackles are up. She knew this was coming.
Rose takes a napkin and wipes the meat juice off her fingers. “It’s not that I don’t like him.”
It’s hard for Rey to be mad at Rose because Rose doesn’t look vengeful or angry. In fact, she looks sad, like it pains her to say it.
Which is way worse. Anger is temporary. Disappointment and regret last far longer. Rose is Rey’s only family. If Rose doesn't approve of Ben – if she never approves of him – Rey doesn’t know what she’ll do. Will she have to choose between them? If she defends Ben right now, is she already making that choice?
She’s getting ahead of herself. Nothing’s happening, she reminds herself. This is a conversation not an ultimatum. Real adults don’t have ultimatums.
“It’s just,” Rose says, “that there are some things that concern me.”
Rey’s stomach sours. “Just say it.”
Kaydel moves to the other room, granting the two privacy. It’s a nice gesture, but unnecessary. Kaydel has probably heard all of this before.
“He never comes out with us during the day, only at night. You two never really go anywhere. You yourself said that his apartment has nothing in it. You’re really serious about him, but the only friend of his you’ve met is Poe.”
Rey’s pretty sure, actually, that Poe is Ben’s only friend. Which isn’t so bad, since it could be argued Rose is her only friend. The rest of it, though, are things she has thought about, deep in the recesses of her mind. Pushed down because Ben – besides Rose – is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
“How much do you really know about him?” asks Rose. “How much has he told you?”
His parents are retired academics living in Chicago. His job is remote. He likes the Nats, but he prefers the Cubs or the White Sox.
He smells like home.
“He’s really private.” Her voice is feeble. The area between her eyebrows burns.
Rose grimaces. “Rey. Is Ben married? That might also explain why he’s hesitant to sleep with you. You say he wants it, but it seems like he’s holding back.”
True. He won’t give himself to her, and he won’t say why. He talks about fucking her in the middle of his dirty talk, but he still won’t do it. His excuses are variations on, “Not like this.”
To Rose’s point, it does look like he’s hiding her away, too. He’ll take her on walks sometimes, but they never go to restaurants, movies, or museums.
Everything is always at night.
Her lips tremble and tears slip down her cheeks. “I don’t know.”
Rose draws Rey into her chest, patting Rey’s back. Rey begins to sob.
“I know how much you like him,” Rose murmurs in her ear. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I’ve never seen you like this.”
He makes her believe in destiny, true love, and happy endings. But what if Ben is the villain of the story? What if Rey’s life is actually a cautionary tale? And not even an original one, but one as old as time. The other woman. Not special. Not beloved. Just someone to be used.
Ben is the other half of her heart. There’s a very real possibility, however, that she is not the other half of his.
“I might have this totally wrong,” Rose offers, still stroking Rey’s back. “But I think something’s up.”
Rey pulls away, wiping her snotty nose and wet eyes on the fabric of her t-shirt. “What should I do?”
Kaydel stands in the kitchen’s entryway. “Something similar happened to my sister. You should show up at his apartment. If he’s not there, then maybe it’s not where he actually lives.”
Her stomach flops.
“He could also be out,” Rose says. “It is a Saturday morning.” She’s trying to make the situation less dire, clearly done with her role of bad cop.
“True.” Kaydel nods. “He could be.”
But what else would explain all this secrecy?
The grief now morphs into a rage so pervasive that it floods her body. Adrenaline whooshes through her.
“No,” she says. “I’m going over there.”
“Do you want me to come?” Rose’s mouth twists in worry.
Rey shakes her head. “No. Have the picnic. Enjoy yourselves. I can’t stay like this. I need to find him.”
She’s technically still in her pajamas, but she grabs her purse and throws on her lime green crocs and heads to the metro station a couple blocks away.
Luckily, she doesn’t have to wait very long for a train (truly a miracle). She rides the few stops it takes to get to Ben’s place off the green line. A man is being buzzed up when she gets to his building, so she’s able to slip in behind him and head to Ben’s door.
Her lower abdomen cramps with anxiety, and her heartbeat is so rapid, she’s vaguely worried about cardiac arrest. Hands shaking, she knocks on his door as hard as she can.
Ben opens it bleary eyed, like he just got out of bed: he’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt. One look at her, though, and he quickly grows alert. “Rey? What’s wrong?”
“Are you married?” she asks.
His mouth drops. “What?” The smell thing is happening again. He’s populating the air with something she can’t name.
“Are you married?” she repeats.
Hurt etches itself into every line on his face. “How can you even ask me that? Rey.”
Forcing herself to stay strong, she pushes past him into the threshold of his apartment. Sparse as ever, but also bathed in shadow; none of the curtains are open. Not even the ones in the living room.
The door closes behind her, but she doesn’t turn around. If she sees him, looking as devastated as she feels, she might cave. “We only meet at night. Your apartment has nothing in it. We never go out. I don’t know anything about your life. We don’t have sex, but you won’t say why. Tell me, Ben. Am I the other woman?”
He comes up behind her, his hands going up and down her arms. That smell – though it’s more of a feeling – from him is still in the air, growing stronger. It makes her want to comfort him.
He burrows his nose into her neck and wraps his arms around her. Deeply, he breathes her in. “You are the only woman.”
Almost worse than being the mistress is being someone he does love but is ashamed to be seen with. To be loved some, but not completely. Not enough.
“Then why?” She breaks down, her head hanging, her body heaving, ugly moans out in the air.
The scent from him chokes her. She feels wetness on the side of her neck; he’s crying, too. He nuzzles her, holds her tighter, like he’s trying to shield her.
But from what?
“It’s not you, I promise.” Frantic whispers mouthed against her skin. “Never you. So perfect, baby.” His voice is raw. He spins her around to gently cradle her skull, hunching his neck so that their foreheads meet. His eyes are red-rimmed and teary. “I’ll explain. I promise. Everything. I didn’t want to … ruin this. But you’re right. You deserve to know.”
The words are far from soothing. Her lips wobble as he leads her to his couch. No longer touching, she faces him while he rubs his palms on his thighs, staring straight ahead at an empty beige wall.
She braces herself for a blow.
“It’s going to be … slightly unbelievable. So, yeah.” His head is now in his hands, palms digging into his eyes.
What could possibly be worse than being married?
“I’m a vampire.”
Her heart is in his hands and he’s making jokes. “That’s not funny.”
Peeking over at her, he sees her dead expression. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me.” His face is grim. “Open my fridge.”
Unsure what to say, she lands on: “What?”
“You don’t believe me, so go open my fridge.”
She exhales audibly through her nose. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for a snack.” Why is she even entertaining this?
She walks across the room to the small kitchen – even smaller than hers and Rose’s. The refrigerator is small, skinny. She yanks the handle, and a blast of cold air hits her. The fridge is empty except for the medical bags of blood sitting on the bottom shelf.
Gasping, she takes a step back, gravity pulling the door closed.
“See?”
She didn’t hear him follow her. Her heart pounds again, though this time for a completely separate reason.
There are no hidden cameras that she can make out, but she says, “This is one elaborate prank.” She turns to him.
A bitter laugh rings out. “You have no idea how much I wish this were a joke.” Arms hanging limp at his sides, a grimace mars his features. “I don’t go out with you during the day because sunlight makes me weak. We don’t go to restaurants because I can’t eat in front of you. And I can’t just sit across from you and watch you eat without you getting suspicious.”
She wants to mention that he does do the last thing, just from the comfort of his living room. Her tongue is too heavy, though. Instead, an icy chill makes its way down her spine.
“We haven’t had sex, Rey, because I don’t want to lie to you.” His voice cracks.
Does part of her believe him because it’s true or because she wants it so badly to be? Not ashamed, not married. Just undead.
Her tone wavers. “I don’t believe you."
He takes a step closer to her and holds out his wrist. “Find my pulse, Rey.”
She feels very small, meeting him where he is. Pressing her fingers to his trademark cold skin, she can’t find even a flicker of a pulse. She tries everywhere on his wrist, frantically looking for the logic of human biology. She tries his neck on both sides. Then she places her palm over where his heart should be. Nothing.
Her body trembles. She backs away from him until she’s against the refrigerator door. She stares past him at the wall.
She’s always dreamt of magical things. Visions of fantastical creatures, epics enriched by a deep tradition of lore. But this is different. It’s different because it’s real.
The rational side of her brain screams that this is crazy. She knows that word carries a stigma, that she shouldn’t use it, but she can’t think of any other word to describe this. It’s crazy. Oh god, is she crazy?
There’s no other explanation, though. It fits with everything he’s told her. She’s felt the proof for herself. She’s seen the blood bags. And those same instincts telling her Ben belongs to her also tell her that this is true.
Looking back at him, his eyes are worried. He hasn’t come any closer. He’s giving her space, but he emits a scent into the air again. She can’t decipher it.
“Let’s say that I do believe you.” And crazy or not, she does, but he doesn’t need to know that, in case this is some sick joke. “Am I really supposed to believe I met a vampire at a Twilight convention?”
He sighs. “Trust me, I see the irony, too.”
Well, at least he’s self aware. She shuffles forward a few inches.
Warily, he watches her. “I know I should’ve told you sooner, but there’s really only one rule to being a vampire: don’t get caught.”
She snorts.
A beat of hope dances in his eyes. The aroma subsides. “Poe said I should just tell you. That you’d find out sooner or later. But the thought of losing you” – his voice cracks – “is unbearable.”
“Why do this with me at all?” Her voice is below a whisper. “Isn’t it a risk?”
His eyes pop open. “I would never hurt you.”
She shakes her head. “No, a risk for you. Because you told me. Don’t you have a governing power or something?” Like the Volturi? (She clearly spends too much time with Rose.)
He frowns. “No. Nothing like that. I’m not even sure how many of us there are. Probably not a lot.”
“But Poe is one, too?” she asks.
He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
She lets that pass.
“I should’ve left you alone.” He stares down at the linoleum tiling. “I should’ve left as soon as I smelled you in that line. You deserve a lot better than me.”
Pop culture is right: the undead are angsty. Ben Solo has the great fortune to join the ranks of self-loathing hall of famers such as Edward Cullen and Angel. (Also, maybe a character from True Blood, but she’s never seen that.)
“You smelled me?” So, the way they smell each other isn’t normal. It’s a vampire thing.
He nods. “Yeah. I mean, I knew as soon as I saw you. It wasn’t just your scent. I’d heard stories, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. I always thought Mitaka was full of shit.”
Not really sure what to make of this lack of cogency, she asks, “Who’s Mitaka?”
The small turn of his lips that she loves so much comes back. “A very stupid person who turned out to be right.”
“About what?”
A slow breath, then he says, “About mates.”
Her heart stops. “What?”
She realizes that he’s said that word to her before, softly under his breath, when they’re in his bed. A whisper she hasn’t let herself hear.
He holds out his hand to her. “Will you come closer?”
She takes it, warm fingers encased in cold ones. Her crocs squeak against the linoleum.
“There are stories of vampires finding their mates.” He tilts his head, watching her intently.
“Like soulmates?” Her heart thumps. It sounds ridiculous but it feels right. Mate. It’s primal. They belong.
His eyes narrow, trying to figure out the right thing to say. “That’s probably where the term came from, but it might be more biological than that. That’s just a theory, though. I’m not really sure.”
“And I’m your mate?” Even saying the word feels good.
“Yes.” His eyes scan her reactions, clearly still unsure of how she’s processing things.
Making it easier for him, she offers a small smile. “It was the same for me.” She squeezes his fingers. “As soon as I saw you, I couldn’t leave. You were the most important person in the room. You still are.”
He fails to suppress a pleased smile. “I didn’t think I could have a mate, that anyone could, really, but especially me. And then I got you.” He grows serious. “That is, if you still want to be with me.” He lifts his eyebrows.
Placing one hand on the side of his face, her thumb strokes his cold skin. “As long as you don’t mind my being human.”
His eyes break. “It’s not supposed to be this way.”
Does he mean them? Her and him together? Is he upset at being her mate?
Her hand falls. “Oh.”
Concern contorts his face. “You smell distressed. What is it?”
Hurt momentarily forgotten, she perks up. “The scent thing is moods, then? Can you always smell mine?” That makes sense. The way he fills the air with something potent, processed through her nose but not quite a true scent.
He shakes his head. “Not always. Just particularly strong ones. You can smell mine, right? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. What did I say?” He wraps his arms around her, then buries his nose in her neck, just like earlier, though this time facing each other.
It works to calm her down. Her hindbrain purrs. Mate.
“What do you mean, we’re not supposed to be this way?” Her voice only a little weepy.
His arms squeeze tighter around her middle. “I’ve never heard of a vampire and a human being mates. Mates don’t even exist for humans, as far as I know. Something about me must trigger it in you. A latent compatibility of some sort.”
She forces his head up. His hands migrate to her waist.
He has lines on his face, like a normal 29-year-old man. Aren’t vampires supposed to look smooth? Translucent? Then again, stories don’t mention the undead sounding like they’re from Illinois. So, clearly, she shouldn’t put too much stock in her conceptions.
“You don’t look like a vampire.”
His lips quirk. “Should I go get my cape?”
If he has lines, is he still immortal? Would they be immortal forever? Or is it just him? “When were you …” Bitten? Sired? Made?
He seems to know what she’s getting at. “It’s a long story.”
It takes a lot for her to not roll her eyes. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
A long exhale. “I want to tell you, it’s just … You might want to lay down for this.”
They go to his bedroom and lay on their sides over the made bed, lying close to each other, but not so close that Rey can’t see his expressions. She wants to capture every emotion of his, she doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“I was bit in 1992 when I was 29.” He looks guiltily at her. “I don’t know if that’s weird for you.”
Is it weird that her boyfriend is technically 58? Would it be better if he were bit in 1892 and he were actually 158?
It might be stupid, but she doesn’t care. He doesn’t look 58. He doesn’t act like he’s 58. Though he doesn’t understand any of her pop culture references and he’s terrible at using his DVR, those are classic traits of a younger millennial.
He’s babbling. “But if it makes you feel better, that’s super young in the vampire community. I’m basically a baby. Well, not a baby, but—”
“I’m 25,” she teases. “Will that be a deal breaker?”
The anxiety that clouded his features – and gathered in the air, now that she thinks about it – melts away. “Okay, good. Good.”
He tells her about a day in Chicago, the dead of winter, after shabbat at his parents’ house. How the last real heat his body ever had was drinking wine and listening to his dad talk about the Blackhawks’ season. How he walked to a bus stop – impossibly cold, wrapped in a parka – but he’d forgotten his gloves. He was about to turn around when a vampire – someone he calls “Fucking Mitaka” – dragged him into an alley and drained him of his blood and forced Ben to drink some of his.
(“That’s how vampires are made?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says. “Your blood must be completely removed, and you have to bite a vampire. We don’t have blood, exactly, but we have something, some sort of liquid, that causes the change.”)
Apparently, the next year was lonely. He had to give up his job, clear out his stuff from his apartment, and cut off contact with his parents. He stayed with Fucking Mitaka for a while after that, not having anyone else, until he eventually decided that being lonely and alone was better than being lonely with his sire.
Poe, however, was an accident. It was the early 2000s and Ben was at a club in Boystown.
(She chokes on laughter. “You? Went to a club?”
He scowls. “I can only go out at night. I know my penchant for Jeopardy! and sudoku may have fooled you, but I have, in fact, participated in night life.”)
He found a half-drained twink in the alley. A vampire left Poe half-dead. Thinking it was the vampire who attacked him, Poe bit Ben hard enough to consume vampire venom. To ingest vampire venom, Ben says, without being completely drained is an incredibly painful death. Ben couldn’t watch, so he finished sucking Poe’s blood. He’s been saddled with him ever since.
She finally gets up the muster to inquire after his diet. “And you only use blood bags?”
He takes a piece of her hair and twirls it. “Yeah. Most of us have connections at blood banks. Modern vampires are kind of lazy, we don’t care about the hunt. Too much effort. It probably has to do with the invention of the internet and modern convenience.”
Leave it to Ben to link contemporary vampirism feeding patterns to the evolution of technology.
“Are you ever tempted by me?”
Immediately, he says, “Never. If I’m being honest, humans all smell the same. That’s what the movies and books don’t get. It’s like human hunger. You don’t get completely overcome when you smell a steak, do you?” He rolls his eyes. “No. It smells good, but you can still control yourself.”
She frowns. “But don’t you have sharpened senses or something for hunting?”
He floats an embarrassed look her way. “I’m actually a terrible hunter.”
She shifts onto her elbow, grinning. “What?”
“Because I was bitten so recently, I haven’t honed any of those skills. Maybe if I worked at it, but I’m not very fast and I’m averagely strong. The best I have is a heightened sense of smell.” His finger twists and untwists the lock of hair, watching the meager light in the room bounce off of it.
Still focused on her hair, he turns melancholy. “Besides, I don’t want to hunt. Even if I need blood to survive, I’m still just a guy. Not some creature.”
(Rose sneaks into her brain to say, “I don’t want to be a monster.”)
Accidentally, Rey whispers, “Just like Edward.”
His face scrunches up and he drops her hair. “Who’s Edward?”
She flushes. “No one. Sorry.”
He watches her, but she concentrates on a beauty mark perched on the side of his nose.
“What about me?” She takes a deep breath. “Would you turn me?”
A long pause ensues. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. Eventually: “I would never ask that of you.”
Her chest cracks, as if having sustained a punch. “Is it … is the mate thing not enough? Do you not feel …” She’s not even sure what to say. He’s never said he loves her.
He shifts, so that he leans over her. Encasing her hands between his own, he brings them to rest against his chest, in the exact place she looked for his heartbeat earlier. “Baby,” he says, “if you knew exactly how much I want you, how intensely I need you, you might get scared off.”
Warmth bubbles through her. It’s better than any ‘I love you.’ She’s not just wanted, she’s needed. A vital resource. “So, you’d want forever?”
He smiles. “I just don’t want you to regret it.” Then, a rueful expression settles on his face. “I didn’t get a choice. Poe didn’t, either, which I still feel terrible about even though he says he doesn’t care. If I took your life away from you, and one day you regretted it, I could never forgive myself.”
“That’s a stupid way to think of it,” she says.
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You wouldn’t really be taking my life away from me. You’d just be … changing it a little.” She adds playfully, “My mate would deny me?”
He shivers at her use of the word. “Never. If that’s what you really want, I’ll bite you right now.”
Part of her does want it. Another part of her, though, thinks of picnics on the National Mall and meeting up with Rose on her lunch break. That will definitely have to be figured out. Can they tell her? God, what will she even tell Kaydel and Rose when she next goes back to the apartment? “False alarm. Ben’s not married, he’s just a vampire!”
Actually, for two Twilight aficionados, that might not be completely unbelievable.
“Hmm.” She cards her fingers through his hair, letting it tickle her skin. “Maybe not right now.”
“We have time,” he murmurs. He places a kiss against her throat. “We don’t need to rush.”
Releasing a shaky exhale, she nods. That feels good. The end of his nose draws a line up her neck.
“Still not tempting?” she asks.
Another kiss, soft. “Not in the least. You just smell good. Not blood-good, but pheromones-good.”
She laughs. “I know the feeling.”
His lips curve against her skin, he lets his body press down on her. “The scent stuff will get stronger once you’re—if you choose to be like me.”
“When I’m like you,” she corrects. Silly, silly man. As if she’d ever say no.
He rewards her answer with a kiss along her jaw. One hand moves to cup the back of her head. He drags his lips up to her ear and takes an earlobe between his teeth and pulls.
The delicious – almost painful – tug of her skin makes her whimper. A scent from him crowds the air again. Though she still can’t differentiate the smells, her body’s reaction lets her know that this is the horny kind. As if she couldn’t guess.
She squirms beneath him. The feel of his body completely on top of hers, even clothed, is addicting. It’s more addicting now that she doesn’t have to guess how he feels.
She clutches his hair as he sucks her neck roughly. His hips grind lightly against hers. She responds, trying to generate more friction. Groaning, he bears down heavily on her body, circling against her so deeply she has to wrap her legs around his waist. Then he thrusts forward, jerking up across her clit.
The aroma gets stronger, making her even wetter.
She lets out a frantic whine. “Do you think we could have sex, Ben? Now? Right now?”
He ruts particularly hard against her, trying to insert himself into her through their pants. “Yes. Fuck.” He ruts again.
She tries to meet his hips, but he’s effectively pinned her to the bed with his body.
He lifts his head to her mouth and sucks her bottom lip. “Sweet girl,” he says, a deep rumble. “So good for me.”
Her pussy drips. Yes. Finally. She loves the way he talks to her when they do this. “Yes, for you. Ben.”
He breathes in heavily through his nose, a swift kiss to her jawline. Then, he pulls away. Looking more pragmatic than she’d like him to. “We don’t need condoms. I’m clean, obviously. You’re clean. Pregnancy isn’t exactly an issue with vampires.”
“Okay. Good.” She doesn’t want to use a condom anyway. She wants to feel her mate.
“You look so cute in your pajamas.” He scans down her body.
She giggles.
He grins at her. He shifts so that his head is level with her waistline. Pushing the hem of her shirt up her body, he places soft kisses to her stomach, sprinkling them around her belly button, then moving upward as more skin is revealed. He licks the lower swell of her breasts. “Such sweet little tits.”
Her shirt is now at her neck. She takes it all the way off as he grazes her nipples with his teeth. Hissing, she threads her fingers through his hair.
He sucks one nipple into his mouth, his tongue lightly swiping at it from inside. He does the same to the other. His hands help out, thumbs teasing the tip of whichever breast isn’t in his mouth.
Drunk on his pheromones and his touch, she bucks uselessly underneath him, searching for pressure to release the burning of her nipples.
One of his hands creeps to her pajama bottoms, slipping underneath. His cold fingers graze her warm pussy, practically a slip and slide at this point.
“Please, Ben. Please touch me.”
His lips curve around a nipple. He releases it with a pop. “Yeah?” The tips of his finger lightly brush over her clit, venturing lower. A finger rubs a circle at her entrance, swirling the wetness he finds there. “Fuck, baby. You’re so wet already.” He looks pleased. “My good little mate. Hot and dripping for me.” His finger dips further in.
Her cunt clenches around him.
“Shit, Rey. How are you always so tight for me?” His tongue gives a quick flick to a nipple.
He’s able to press down on a particularly good area, making her vision spot. He adds a second finger to stretch her out.
“Baby, how are you going to take my cock?” He smirks at her. Moving up her body, he shifts to his side, so that he’s right by her ear. “How am I going to stuff you full?”
His thumb swipes her clit and she shudders. Needy little mewls. At the next brush of her clit, she clamps down on him again.
He growls.
Unable to take it, she turns her face and bites his lower lip, then sucks it better. “Take your clothes off.”
His jaw drops, eyes hungry. “Fuck.”
Quickly he strips away his clothes while she takes care of her pajama bottoms. He settles on top of her again, arms bracketing her on either side. Her thighs wrap around his waist. His hard cock hangs right against her cunt. He rubs against her a bit, getting himself wet. She shifts to try to get him inside, but he doesn’t let her. Instead, he places kisses around her lips. “My sweet thing thinks she’s ready?”
She hums.
His nostrils flare, the air intensifying with his pheromones. “I want to come inside you. You gonna let me, sweetheart? You gonna let me flood your cunt with my cum?”
Her chest is pounding. “Yes,” she says. “Please. Need your cum.”
“Alright, baby. We’ll go nice and slow.”
And with that, Ben grabs the head of his cock and presses it in her swollen cunt.
Her body screams for him to ram it in, despite her mind knowing he needs to be gentle. Ben seems to be battling a similar instinct, because he looks pained at going this slowly.
He slips in another inch. Even though there’s so little of him in there – relative to the entire length of his cock – her pussy relishes the feel of him, and clenches down. Hard.
He growls. “Yes.” Two more inches.
Her body stretches itself around the intrusion, the burn of it feeling good because this is Ben. And Ben belongs to her. She takes his head between her hands and brings her lips to his, letting her tongue swirl inside to taste as much of him as she can.
He groans. Another few inches.
She whimpers.
He pulls back, rubbing his nose along hers. “Are you okay? Just a little more.”
Her lips tremble. “Please, please. I need you.”
He grits his teeth. “I know, baby. Let your mate take care of you.” He slides the rest of the way in.
He buries his head in her neck, inhaling and exhaling. Meanwhile, his hips flex, testing how deep he can go, impaling her as deeply as he can.
His pelvis against her clit, finally full of him, it’s too much for her; she comes. Her pussy convulses, gripping his cock to bring him in even deeper, as if that were possible. She gushes against him. Wetness leaks out of her and drips down her ass.
Ben sounds like he’s being strangled, a long noise muffled only by her hair and her neck. He bucks into her while she comes, feeling how tight she’s getting just for him. Her body shakes, but eventually the orgasm subsides, and he’s still hard inside of her.
They lay there like that while Rey tries to calm down, but she’s still aroused. He moves his head to look her in the eyes, and he’s absolutely gone. Whatever control he seemed to have before has vanished. Completely dazed and turned on, he gives a mean shove of his cock in her sensitive cunt.
She whimpers.
“My baby comes so well for me,” he says, lip curling.
Another deep thrust. Her tits jiggle.
“She just needed it so badly, didn’t she?”
He thrusts again.
“Almost made me come,” he says a little angrily, like he blames her. “Just needed to make sure I was nice and warm in her tight little cunt, huh?”
His harsh thrusts in her oversensitive cunt shouldn’t turn her on again so much, but they do. She lets out a broken keen. “Ben,” she whines.
“That’s it, baby, say my name. Let me hear how much you love my cock,” he says, picking up the pace. His thrusts grow longer with a punctuating twist at the end that shoves him deep inside momentarily, before pulling out and starting all over again.
“So good,” she says, her words slurring slightly. “Perfect cock, Ben. Mate. Mate.”
“Love hearing you say that,” he mutters. “Love how tight you’re getting all over again. Wanted you like this as soon as I saw you. Wanted to stuff you with my cum.”
She looks right into his eyes.
A hand roughly rubs her breast. “You were made for me. My sweet, sweet mate.”
She nods vigorously. “Yes. Yours.” She brings his forehead to hers while he moves inside of her. “You’re mine.”
He breathes out sharply. “Yours. Yes. Meant to worship you. Going to fuck you like this every chance I get.” His nostrils flare. “Make sure my mate’s always nice and full of my big cock. Never be empty.”
Her orgasm is building again, with every brutal pound of his cock. Her thighs shake.
He looks at her disbelievingly. “Baby, again? So soon?” His hips do an improvised swivel briefly before returning to his previous pattern of thrusting. He draws his mouth against her cheek. “I can’t believe you walk around with a golden little cunt between your legs. So cute and tiny. And now I get to fuck it until it comes.”
This orgasm is longer than the last one, it runs up and down her body at breakneck speed, spilling warmth into her every limb, her vision practically going white. Once again, her cunt tightens and tries to milk his cock.
He moves back onto his knees and holds her hips up, coming in forceful pulses. “That’s it, baby.” He flexes his hips. “Take all of my cum. Keep it nice and safe for me.” After several more waves of his cold semen coating her sore walls, he puts her down and removes himself.
He falls onto the bed, covering her with his body. Comforting, despite the chill of his skin. The pheromones in the air slowly dissipate while the two recover their breathing.
He kisses her cheek, her neck, her ear. Wherever he can get to without having to move his head too much. “So fucking perfect, Rey. My mate.”
***
“The score is kind of loud. Can you turn it down?” Ben asks, frowning at the television screen. “Hey, is that a deer?”
Rose shushes him. “How are you going to watch the movie if you talk every five seconds?”
Rey snorts. “You clearly haven’t seen him when Jeopardy! is on.”
Rose and Kaydel have squished into the loveseat in Rose and Rey’s living room. Rey and Ben occupy the couch with Poe. There are snacks on the table, but only three out of the five have eaten any of them.
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Twilight,” Kaydel says, baby Renesmee swinging from each ear.
“Um,” is Ben’s great response.
Rey leans forward for some peanut M&Ms. She doesn’t have to look over to know he’s trying to think of a plausible lie. She can already come up with several, but he’s terrible under pressure, poor guy. Doesn’t have a poker face.
“You know Ben,” Poe chimes in. “He finds all that vampire stuff super annoying.”
Ben chokes.
She squeezes his hand, doing her best not to laugh. “Yeah,” she says. “He couldn’t care less.”
“I’d never given much thought to how I would die …”