by Kat Catesby
“Then what’s your next question?” he purrs as he dances feather-light touches across my abdomen, up to my ticklish ribs before teasing my heavy breasts. Jackson pinches my right nipple hard, sending spikes of awareness south to where he’s balls deep in me, causing me to clench deliciously around his thick cock.
“That’s really not helping,” I moan.
He chuckles wickedly and I smile in return until I realize he didn’t actually answer my question. Somehow, I manage to tell him so…quite the achievement given my current state of ecstasy.
“My apologies, Miss. Vincent. Guess you’re not the only one easily distracted. Donors are my main source of nutrients, but not my only. We can purchase blood from blood banks, as they keep stock for my kind.”
He flexes his devilish hips again, making me insane with need. I grip his upper arms tightly, silently begging him for more.
Finish me off.
Put me out of this intense, excruciating, sexual misery and let me come.
But another voice whispers that I should make the most of Jackson’s willingness to share the truth with me.
“They know about your kind?”
“We’re only a secret to the general public, sweetheart. Crowd mentality would see people fear us, then hate us…and we all know that hate leads to the dark side,” he quotes Star Wars with a deep laugh.
As much as I enjoy Jackson’s light-hearted side, don’t think I’ve missed the fact that he’s answering my questions in vague, obscure ways.
“I won’t play this game if you don’t give me straight and complete answers, Mr. Smoak. If you insist on refusing me an orgasm because you want my questions, then you better damn well answer them quickly and fully. I don’t like delayed gratification; mostly I’m impatient and demanding when there’s something I desire. You have me where you want me, so fucking well take me with everything you’ve got,” I demand.
Jackson smiles and slides out almost completely before thrusting back in deeply.
I dig my nails into his bulging biceps as I try to accommodate him again; he’s altered the angle of our hips fractionally, allowing him to penetrate deeper – something I didn’t think was possible. He feels thicker, harder, longer, and I need a moment to acclimate to the overwhelming sensation of being impaled by him.
“Careful, sweetheart. I’m not sure you’re ready for everything I’ve got, but you have a point. I can easily go all night, but I need to be mindful of your needs; you’re not ready for the blissful torture of prolonged lovemaking. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to drive you a little crazier still…you’re not even close to begging me yet.”
My pussy clenches around him at his words and the bite of pain from his possession radiates through me, igniting the inferno from earlier.
I’ve never been into the whole pain gives you pleasure thing, but being stretched to the extreme by Jackson’s impressive cock is the exception to my rule. Nothing sates my raging hunger for him, not even the probing pain of his almost-too-big dick pressing against the white-hot spot within me, scorching me.
“Answer the question so I can finish mine,” I whimper needy and mindless.
“My kind is known to the governing bodies around the world. They make accommodations for us under the proviso that the general public is kept ignorant. We have to vet our Donors and ensure they maintain our secrecy. It’s universally accepted that the average person isn’t going to take the knowledge of immortal, blood-drinking individuals well.”
“I’m not your Donor and you haven’t vetted me to determine if I’ll keep your secret.”
“You’re not an average person,” he answers simply and I’m not touching that line of questioning just yet. I’m too afraid to hear what he has to say as far as I’m concerned.
“You said you’ve been surviving for quite some time – how old are you? Who created you?” I say in a rush.
“I was born, Emilia, not made,” I blink in surprise. “I told you, I’m like a ‘normal’ person mostly; I was born, I have a father and brother, and I had a mother – my kind has never needed to turn humans to ensure our continuation. Historically, there were mischievous factions who did as a way to cause trouble, but mostly we only transform humans at their request. And as for my age, I’m one-hundred-and-sixty years old.”
Holy fuck.
“You don’t look like an old man,” I try for nonchalance.
“We stop aging and become, for all intents and purposes, immortal, once we hit our prime, which normally happens in our early to mid-twenties.”
“The first time I laid eyes on you I knew you didn’t look like a college kid; something told me you were older, I just never dreamed you’d be that old,” I tease, mostly to put me at ease with the one-hundred-and-forty-two year age gap.
“I’m pretty sure an old man doesn’t fuck like this...”
Jackson proceeds to blow my mind. Nothing exists but the sweet sensations he draws from me as he works my body more thoroughly than I’ve ever had the pleasure of.
I squeeze and shudder around him, writhe and claw beneath his taut, firm body and meld myself to his sumptuous, lush lips, drinking him in as he steals every gasp of air from my straining chest.
It’s not long before my climax builds again; white-hot muscles coil in desperate anticipation and I know he’s going to shatter me into a thousand fiery pieces and I’m ready for it, eager for it…out of my mind for it.
“Before I tip you over the edge, sweetheart, do you have any more questions for me?” His voice is a strained growl, his jaw rigid with his driving need to pleasure me and the monumental effort of not succumbing to his own climax.
I don’t want to talk anymore; I just want him.
I haven’t known him long or even know him well, but there’s a magnetism between us that has ensured my aching need for him.
But it occurs to me that I want a clean slate with him – whatever we are to one another, we will – at the very least – be intense. And once he claims my bone-shattering climax, I’ll be his…and there will be difficult waters to navigate if we haven’t resolved all of the crap presently haunting me.
I struggle to form words through the haze of bliss, but I know I must.
“What am I? How do you know me?” I whisper and I know, in my heart of hearts, that we’ve done this before. Despite how impossible that sounds, there’s no other explanation for how intimately he knows my body or for the confusing references he made about me.
I haven’t been myself since I moved here, but with Jackson, the person I once was is back. The confident girl who knows what she wants, trusts herself and doesn’t second guess herself has clawed her way back to the surface in his presence.
But why was I off in the first place? If he’s what he says he is and we’ve done this before…then what am I?
He stills and his expression is dark and wary. “You want to do this now?”
“Clean slate,” I say in a hushed voice, suddenly afraid to talk too loudly. “And besides, you wanted my questions.”
He takes a deep breath, “They’re not nightmares, Emilia. They’re memories.”
Chapter Eight
The temperature in my body takes a glacial nosedive.
I don’t push Jackson away again, but he’s smart enough to know when I need him to stop. He places his hands either side of my face, his soft eyes boring into mine; he hasn’t withdrawn from me and I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the connection or if it just confuses me more.
“Breathe, Emilia,” he soothes.
Memories…
“So…I’m…” I trail off, confused and unsure about how to finish my question.
“You and I are opposites, two sides of nature’s coin. My kind and yours are equally matched in strength and power, but your kind is more evenly tempered. You have a calming presence designed to balance out the volatility of my kind. When it comes to us, you soothe me to my core and I fire you up; I push your serenity to its limits and it makes you feel alive.
“Times have changed, but some of the old prejudices still linger; intimate relationships between our kinds are still rare and it was your connection to me that got you killed.” His inky eyes are now bleak with pain, haunted by the memory of me dying in his arms and I realize that he’s been plagued with these frightening images for longer than I have, for longer than I can even comprehend; 18 years of nightmares is nothing compared to more than a lifetime.
“I was killed on purpose? By your own kind? Because of our relationship?” My voice climbs as the pieces slowly fit together and despite being caged in and protected by his body, I no longer feel safe.
Have times changed that much? Would I still be a target if his kind found out about us again?
“Yes,” his voice is strained, but not from the wild passion of our sex anymore.
“Am I safe?”
“No one has made the connection except me; no one here knew me when I lost you – they don’t know about you and they haven’t seen your eyes.”
“My eyes?” My trembling voice betrays my fear; I always knew something wasn’t right with them.
“Most Guardians have some shade of silver-gray eyes, making them interesting, but not obvious or attention-grabbing. Yours, however, are spectacular and they give you away; anyone who knows about our supernatural world wouldn’t fail to make the connection the moment they see them.”
“How long ago did I die?” My voice is hushed and my adrenaline is burning out. This evening’s revelations are starting to take their toll.
“One hundred and twenty years ago.”
Holy. Shit.
“How am I here? Am I the same person? Where have I been since then?” I blurt out my questions in a terrifying rush.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. No one knows for sure how or why this happens, but the working theory is that the most powerful Supernaturals never really die. Their force, power, and energy live on until they are reborn again. We can’t tell how often this phenomenon occurs, because very few can recall their previous life. So, it could happen more frequently then we think, but we have no clue what dictates when a Supernatural is reborn.
“In essence, you are the same person, but it’s the nature vs nurture conundrum – how much of you is shaped by your family and experiences, and how much of you was born to exist. I can see differences; you’re certainly feistier this time around. But I think it would be an insult to the person you are now and to my memories to compare the two. You are different and I would like to get to know the new you.”
“Is that what you meant when you said you didn’t understand this version of me?”
“Yes. You don’t do what I expect you to do and you don’t let me in, but then why would you? Up until an hour ago, you thought we only met five days ago. I need to remember that, to work for your trust and get to know you all over again. I know that this is a lot to digest, Emilia, but I knew that you were powerful and have spent the last century of my life hoping that you would come back.”
Jackson looks at me earnestly, his voice pleading, willing me to relax instead of bolting for the door. So I settle for what I hope is a suitable middle ground for us both.
“I don’t feel very powerful, I feel cold. I would like to get dressed and then would you walk me home, please?”
I wasn’t as desperate to have space from him as perhaps I should’ve been, but I still needed to process all of this in the quiet safety of my own room…without distractions. And despite my shivers of fear and confusion, Jackson Smoak is still epically distracting, which only confuses me more.
I’ve just learned that I am a supernatural re-incarnation of myself who was murdered in the arms of her hot-as-sin supernatural lover…
What the fuck, doesn’t even cover it.
This could take a while to process.
“Of course I’ll take you home. You’re taking this better than I thought you would; I keep thinking any second now you’re going to run to the hills screaming.”
“I’m numb; running and screaming aren’t currently available options.”
Jackson withdraws his cock from me with a heavy thud; I vaguely register that he’s still hard despite our serious, and frankly, scary conversation and I focus on anything but the empty ache I now feel inside me at his absence.
He passes me a pair of boxer briefs that are just about snug enough for me to pull my skinny jeans over the top without them bunching up uncomfortably. My bra is still damp, so I just pull on my grass-stained shirt and Jackson throws me one of his black sweaters.
When I look up, he’s already dressed in a black hooded sweater and a pair of gray sweats that sit low on his lean and sculpted hips…hello, dick print.
He looks like any other college kid…as long as any other college kid looks like a sculptured Adonis who just stepped off the page of a high-end fashion magazine with a serious package between their legs.
Jackson reaches out to hold my hand once I slip my feet into my ballet flats. I take it, knowing I’ll need his sure-footed stability to make it back to my room.
The warmth of his firm hand spreads out from where he’s touching me, but it’s not enough to thaw the chill freezing its way into the very core of me.
He laces his fingers with mine but doesn’t move to be any closer to me as he leads me silently out of his room and back down the stairs to the front door. The party is finally over, but there are drunken bodies asleep in random places everywhere I look.
We walk silently through the cool night air. I’ve no idea what time it is, but I’m weary to the bone and my mind is exhausted.
It doesn’t take us long to reach my dorm and for Jackson to walk me to my door. It takes me a second longer than it should to realize that I didn’t tell him where I live. I raise my eyebrows in question and Jackson just shrugs in an are-you-really-that-bothered type of way.
After everything that’s happened this evening, probably not.
He leans forward, touching his lips gently to my forehead and I want him to stay and leave in equal measure.
“Try and get some sleep. Everything will seem better in the morning,” he promises.
I nod and walk through my door, closing it quietly behind me. I peel my jeans off as quickly as I can manage without falling over, and flop down onto my bed, curling up into a tight ball still wearing Jackson’s boxers and sweater.
I fall into a deep sleep surrounded by the scent of him.
Everything will seem better in the morning…
Everything was not better in the morning.
Chapter Nine
A persistent knocking on my door drags me into consciousness…I don’t go willingly.
Groaning in frustration, I roll over and see the time; I’ve overslept and missed all of my morning lectures thanks to last night’s vigorous nocturnal activities.
Before I can
compose myself, the asshole at my door gives up knocking and proceeds to open my door with a key they apparently have.
My first thought is that it’s Jackson checking up on me, having somehow procured himself my room key just like he procured my address without me telling him…sadly, this isn’t the case.
I didn’t realize just how disappointing that could be until Sonya’s unmistakable red hair and pointy bitch-face waltz into my room.
My heart sinks.
“Oh, so you are in here.”
I sit up and try to rub the sleep from my eyes, my hands not quite visible through the long sleeves of Jackson’s sweater.
What is she doing here and why the fuck does she have a key?
I’m not the greatest morning person and I can feel a particularly foul mood developing at her annoying presence.
“You look tired...guess it was sloppy seconds for you after all. You’re going to need to work on your stamina though if you’re going to be one of Jackson’s fuck bunnies,” she smirks.
One of?
My heart thumps painfully in my chest, even though I know she’s just being a bitch to get a rise from me.
“What are you doing here?” quiet hatred burns in my veins.
“I’m your new roommate.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“You’re a sophomore, I’m a freshman. That makes no sense, so fuck off and stop bothering me.”
“A lonely freshman who’s struggled to socialize and needs some help integrating into student life. At least, that’s what our mutual friends with influence persuaded the Dean to believe.”
“Why would Jackson persuade anyone to let you be my roommate? Pretty sure he picked up on my undertone of dislike and general hatred for you. If he didn’t want me to be alone, you would be the last person he would send.”
I’m exhausted, increasingly frustrated and, I hate to admit it, beginning to panic.
“Jackson didn’t send me. He’s not the be-all and end-all, despite his age and influence. There are Avidites that even he has to answer to, and they’re not thrilled that he spilled his supernatural secret to some freshman chick who’s un-vetted and apparently not a Donor. He had to answer some awkward questions about that this morning. Normally, if he’s not after a new Donor, he just fucks the girl without telling her his life story. So, why’d he tell you?” She demands.