Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Atticus had been good. He'd waited. He'd been patient, even when it felt like he was being eaten alive by desire.

Carmine needed time, and watching her slowly come into her own on the estate was a thing of beauty. He loved watching her discover herself. The sound of her laughter, the easy way she fit in with his family, the profound joy she took in the simplest things — it all carried him through the unbearable hours he spent waiting for her to give him the sign that she was ready for him.

He knew that he was greedy, and maybe saying he had been patient was a bit of a stretch when he monopolized her time and touched her every chance he got, but for a vampire that had chosen his anchor, he thought he'd done pretty fucking well.

Whenever he had a spare moment, he tried to think of new things for her to experience — a state fair, a two-night river cruise, dancing in a renovated fire station-turned-club, trips to bookshops and museums — and he treasured every smile, gasp, and question she aimed his way. Even when they did nothing more than sit on the couch and watch movies, her legs slung over his lap and his arm stretched across the cushions to play with her hair, he was more fulfilled than he had been in his entire life.

It turned out that he hadn't been missing the excitement of crime. He'd been missing a purpose.

That purpose was experiencing life through Carmine's curious eyes, watching that shy smile unfurl, tasting her hot little cunt, and feeling her sharp little fangs sliding into his throat. Every feeding, every touch, every night that crawled by without claiming her made him more certain that she was it for him.

And she tried to leave.

A flush of panic prickled his skin even as he pressed his lips against hers in a desperate, hungry kiss. The idea that he might think of her as anything less than his perfect anchor was so outrageous that he struggled to process it.

But what was she supposed to think when I never said the words?

Atticus assumed she'd just know. She would understand why he offered his blood at every opportunity, why he took her out every chance he got, why he couldn't quite stop himself from touching her even when he tried so hard to give her space. He was giving her room to grow and come to him in her own time. He was building trust and making damn sure that she didn't feel like she had to reciprocate his feelings.

But he'd over-corrected. Carmine didn't have any references to hold him up to, only the harsh, black and white bullshit the crypt had beaten into her about what to expect from a relationship. Was it any wonder that she'd misread his attempts to court her?

"I'm obsessed with you," he breathed against her swollen lips. "You're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. I dream about how you taste and I— Fuck, doll, I'd do anything to make you mine."

A saccharine jingle from the photobooth's console might have ruined the moment if Carmine hadn't slipped her soft hands under the hem of his t-shirt to stroke his skin. He hissed, his abdominal muscles tensing even as his venom gland pulsed angrily, desperate for relief. The pain from it had become nearly unbearable over the last several weeks, but he'd endured it. She was worth any pain, any sacrifice.

"Why didn't you say so?"

"I had to give you time," he rasped, dipping his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her neck. Her breath hitched and his cock, painfully hard behind his fly, jerked. He'd damn near rubbed it raw over the past several weeks, but not even a bit of chafing would stop it from finally, finally having her. "Couldn't rush you. Couldn't violate your trust. Had to make sure you knew?—"

"That you're mine?"

He could only groan. Speech was beyond him as he mindlessly mouthed at her neck, the instinct to bite screaming inside him.

Carmine's curious fingers dipped to the button of his jeans. "When we were stopped at that checkpoint and Captain Bennet asked me if I wanted to get away from you, I told them that you were mine."

The console squealed with tinny, upbeat music as a cheerful androgynous voice ran through the instructions on how to take their pictures, but none of that made an impression on him as he gasped, "You did?"

"I hoped," she whispered, popping the brass button through the loop. The zipper went next, the teeth coming apart slowly as she dragged the tab down. "I wanted it to be true."

He knew he should stop her. They were in a public place — one with a camera, no less — and the instinct to get her somewhere dark and secluded pounded him from all sides, but very little had changed since her first feeding in the RV.

He was still weak, reduced to nothing but base urges and pleasure when she caressed the flat of his stomach and crisp line of hair that disappeared into his briefs. Atticus was helpless. He'd give her anything, everything, no matter where or when she asked for it.

And when she looked up at him like that, when she whispered her desires against his lips…

"I never wanted to be someone's blood bride, but when I'm with you, I don't feel like one. I feel like I'm home."

He was a goner.

Atticus was forced to slap his palms against the photobooth's door when her fingers slid under the waistband of his underwear to brush against his tortured cock. He hunched his shoulders, blocking her from whatever view the camera might've had, and croaked, "You're not a blood bride to me. You're my whole world."

A hiss of relief escaped from between his teeth when she freed him from the wretched confines of his briefs. Carmine touched him experimentally, her expression intensely focused as she adjusted to the weight of him in her hand. She wore that look again, the one that turned him on like nothing else: the look that said he was her plaything, her experiment, and all he had to do was sit back and take whatever she chose to give him.

"You don't want me to give you heirs."

It wasn't a question, but he answered her anyway. "Not anytime soon, and not unless you want kids. And just so you know, I got the birth control shot years ago. I can't get you pregnant until I get that reversed." Birth control wasn't something most vampires thought about, what with their intense breeding drive and the long process of preparing an anchor for the endeavor, but he wasn't a man who took chances.

She rewarded him with a slow stroke. "You don't care about prestige."

"I don't give a fuck about prestige." He spread his legs a little, trying to keep his balance as his knees threatened to give out on him. "Fuck, doll, you're killing me."

Carmine glanced up at him with wide blue eyes. "Am I doing it wrong? I studied?—"

He couldn't stop the low, garbled sound that escaped his throat. "You're perfect. I just don't want our first time to be in a fuckin' photo booth, and I've been waiting for this for so long that I might not make it even that far if you keep this up."

"Oh." Her gaze darted down to where she held his cock in her silken fist. The strobing lights from the photo booth, hot pink and blue, caught in the beads of pre-come that crowned the head. "Oh."

Atticus tried to catch his breath, but it was pointless when she took it away again just as quickly. "Take me home, then," she demanded, arching onto the balls of her feet to nibble on his lower lip. Those perfect fangs pricked his lip, making them both groan.

It killed him to say it, but Atticus had to ask, "Are you sure? We don't have to rush. I'll go as slow as you need me to, doll."

His hips jerked when she gave him a firm squeeze. "You told me sex is sacred when it's with the right person, the right chemistry, the right time."

Claws digging into the wall, he hissed, "I did."

"You're the right person." She stroked him, slow and tight. "This is the right chemistry." Her fangs pressed into his lip again, drawing the smallest amount of blood. She lapped it up as she stroked his cock. His brain short-circuited. "This is the right time, Atty. I know it."

"Fuck."

He had to stop her or he really would come all over her hand. It was hot as fuck that she didn't care that they were still sort of in public, but his instincts were going haywire, demanding he throw her over his shoulder and hide her away someplace where no one else could see, hear, or smell her. He was desperate to satisfy Carmine, but the instinct to claim was walloped by the compulsion to protect her.

Panting, he dropped his hands to crush her to his chest, effectively pinning her arm between them so she was forced to stop her erotic torture. "Okay. Okay. We're going home. Now."

"Wait."

His heart dropped into his stomach. "What? What's wrong?"

Carmine tilted her head back to give him a slow, mischievous smile. "Can we take a picture first?"