He didn't sleep. Not because he didn't want to--but because he couldn't. Every time his eyes drifted shut, her voice stirred at the edge of his mind like smoke curling under a locked door. Not words, not quite, but vibrations of want so loud they echoed between his ribs. He lay in bed, slick with sweat, the sheets soaked through, his cock half-hard and twitching like it still remembered the shape of her cunt. His body wasn't his anymore--it was wired for her, synched to her hunger like a moth to flame.
The clock read 3:04 AM.
And he was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
He could still taste her.
Not just her pussy--though that flavor, God, that flavor--metallic, sweet, earthy, like licking the inside of a blood-slick peach--lingered on his tongue like sacrament. But her kiss. The press of her mouth to his, her tongue darting past his lips like it belonged there, like she'd mapped every ridge of his teeth in some previous life.
She wasn't human. She wasn't real.
But his cock didn't care. It ached like it missed her.
And then the front door opened.
He stiffened. Not with arousal--this was fear. Panic. Marissa. She was supposed to be gone till Monday.
He heard her call his name. Light. Normal. Oblivious. The sound of a woman who'd just picked up a bottle of rosΓ© and a tub of her sister's drama and thought she was coming home to kiss her husband and curl up in her robe.
He felt like a crime scene.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because his cock was still half-hard and leaking. His neck still oozed a faint trickle of blood. His thighs were glazed in the remnants of a fuck that didn't belong to the man she married.
He heard her pause outside the bedroom door. Her voice came again--closer now. "Jules? You okay?"
The door creaked open.
She stepped in wearing a loose-knit sweater and soft leggings, hair braided over one shoulder, clutching a reusable bag full of leftovers and wine. The room reeked of sex. Of sweat and heat and something darker--copper, maybe. She blinked.
"You... okay?" she asked again, slower this time. "You look like shit."
"I didn't sleep," he croaked, his voice dry as ash.
She stepped closer. "You're pale. You're sweating." She reached out--her hand on his forehead. "You're burning up."
He didn't flinch. He just stared at her, wide-eyed. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
Her lips were soft. Familiar.
Wrong.
She pulled back, her smile faltering. "Julian... what the hell is this?" Her hand brushed his neck. He winced. She pulled her fingers away and stared at them.
Blood.
Her eyes narrowed. "Is that a bite?"
"It's nothing," he lied too quickly. "Probably a spider or--"
"Spider my ass." She moved the sheet down further. "Scratches. All over you." Then her gaze froze. Locked. Her jaw clenched.
"Julian."
She'd seen the lipstick. Deep burgundy. Stamped above his cock like a wax seal on a forbidden letter. Her voice was colder now.
"Who was here?"
He sat up too fast. Pain speared his hips and back. He hissed, hand to his thigh. "I didn't--listen, it's not what you think--"
"Oh, fuck you, Julian," she spat, backing away from the bed. "You're raw, you're marked, you smell like someone fucked you in your sleep and you're trying to lie to me?"
"I didn't invite her. She--she came to me. I didn't ask for this!"
"You think that makes it better?" Her voice cracked--then sharpened again, bitter as bleach. "I left for two days. You couldn't even keep your dick in your pants for two days."
He tried to move. Failed. His legs were jelly. His heart pounded like it was trying to punch through his ribs. He barely registered the sound of her keys hitting the hallway floor, the fridge door yanked open and slammed, something fragile shattering.
Then the front door again. Slam.
And silence.
βΈ»
That silence didn't end. Not the next hour. Or the next. Or the one after that.
He didn't call her. Didn't text. What the fuck could he say? That a creature from a dream crawled through his window and rode him until she tasted his soul? That his cum was inside something that might not be alive in the way anything should be?
He tried to shower. The water hit his skin and he moaned--not from pain, not from relief, but from sensation. Every nerve was tuned to her. Like she was inside him still. Feeding.
The mirror showed him the same bite, red and small but unmistakable. Just above his heart. The lipstick--faint now--still smeared like a sigil below his navel.
The clock read 4:12.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He picked it up, hoping--maybe even praying--it was Marissa. Some curse-laced rant. Some flicker of hope.
But the number was unknown.
And the message read:
