The first thing he did was move with human speed to the pile of her clothes on the floor by the bed. He moved slowly because he wanted to be quiet and not cause a breeze or give Delilah anything to sense that might wake her.

He didn’t look at her as he gathered them up, went back to the door, opened it, and tossed them out. He stood in its frame, taking off his own bloodstained clothes and boots and tossing them out with Delilah’s.

He closed the door, closing away the scent that gave him the near-irresistible urge to become wolf or bare his fangs and sink them into something with no intent to feed.

That done, he went to the table and dumped her purse there. Then he moved to the sink and quietly cleaned the rest of the blood from his skin, going back to the door to toss the bloodstained washcloth with the clothes.

Back inside, behind closed doors, he put on another tee and jeans and moved again to the bed.

He stood beside it, looking down at Delilah Johnson.

She was asleep on her side, hair still wet and spread across the pillow. One hand under her cheek, cheek in her palm. The other hand was curled into the covers, in her sleep, holding them tight to her chest as if protecting herself.

Her milky-green eyes, with their fans of dark lashes, were closed, but even in the dark, with his preternatural vision, he could see the rose in her cheeks against the flawless pale of her skin.

She was wearing his tee. Wearing his tee against that pale skin, using it to cover her abundant tits, the swells of her generous hips, that round ass.

His cock started to harden.

A century of her in his dreams, he would have assumed, finally having her, it would be difficult to move slowly with her.

He would never have guessed that every moment in her presence where he couldn’t take her mouth, thrust his cock in her cunt, would be torture.

One side of him—wolf, vampire, or possibly both—was urging him to connect with her, claim her, fuck her savagely and pour his seed inside her, then pull out and coat her with it. He could smell her laying there, sleeping. He could taste the wild tang of her he knew from his dreams. And he knew down to his balls that his cum and her juices mingled would be the most beautiful essence he’d ever smelled in his life—or ever would.

He needed it. His body demanded it. The animal in him strained to it just as the monster in him craved her blood on his tongue.

He moved to the armchair, folded into it, and reached out to turn off the light.