Blood Match (Blood Type 2)

“So…close,” she ground out.

One powerful thrust seated him to the hilt within her. She cried out as he stretched her to the max. No warning or preamble just his cock inside of her, filling her to completion.

Her walls clenched around him. She was so close, but instinctively, she knew he wasn’t going to let her release without him.

Then he started moving. A slow pull out and a quick drive inward. Once, twice, three times.

“Not yet,” he said, his eyes commanding.

She tried to hold back. She could wait. Oh God, she could wait.

Then he started up the rhythm again. Setting his own course, owning and claiming her body. Reclaiming everything that he’d lost in that one moment of stupidity on her part. In his one moment of weakness.

She could see in his eyes the weight that loss had cost him. The toll it had taken on him for giving into his urges, for finally relinquishing his hold on himself. His eyes said he’d never do it again. His eyes were a promise.

“Becks, come with me,” she cried, clutching the sheets.

He grasped her hips and owned her body where he refused to own her blood. Taking everything she would give him, but not everything he wanted. Not everything she wanted.

She was so close. She looked in his eyes and knew they would finish together.

* * *

—

Reyna woke up screaming.

She jolted upright in her overly plush king-sized bed with its too many pillows and too much softness. Her hair was plastered to her face. Sweat coated her body, soaking through the thin white shirt she’d worn to bed.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and she looked around the small room. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed. Not a damn thing.

Beckham wasn’t here.

It had been a dream. A sick dream. A desperate horrible dream.

Her hand moved to her cotton panties and found the slicked wetness still there. The ache still building in her lower half from lack of release. The aftereffects of the dream. It had felt so real. So very real.

She had felt him moving inside of her. She had seen the love in his eyes. She had known his remorse.

But none of that was real.

That was her imagination at work. Conjuring his face just to torture herself with his absence. Remembering the feel of his body and the love in his eyes, only to know that he hadn’t found her. Aching for one more view of him.

It had been fifty-five days since she’d last seen his face.

Reyna made a mark in the notebook next to the bed.

Fifty-six.

Chapter 2

As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had woken up from that dream, it had to be a Thursday too. A fucking Thursday.

On Thursdays she had to give blood. Ugh!

Reyna shucked the covers off of her legs and stalked to the adjoining washroom. She still didn’t consider it her room. She hoped that she would never think of it like that. It might have a Jacuzzi tub, waterfall shower, king-sized bed, and a library to make any bookworm jealous, but that didn’t make it anything other than what it was—a prison cell.

She might have everything she could ever need, but she had nothing she actually wanted. No access to the outside world. No news of Beckham. No news of her brothers. Not that she’d dare ask. The last thing she wanted was to bring attention to them.

And of course, she didn’t have her freedom.

Beckham had offered that to her with a ten million dollar check in a brown leather folder. She hadn’t taken it, of course. She’d thought it was a trap. A way for Beckham to keep her indebted to him for life. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

She knew what real freedom looked like. It wasn’t that check and it certainly wasn’t a well-maintained prison cell. Whatever that dickbag who had imprisoned her thought.

Reyna turned on the shower and peeled the sweaty layers off her body while she waited for it to heat up. She stuck the clothes in a chute and grabbed another white T-shirt and a pair of loose cotton shorts, dropping them onto a stool and entering the steaming shower.

Her closet was nothing compared to what it had been at Beckham’s apartment. She’d resented the silk and satin and lace. All the little unmentionables. The mile-high heels that she’d only recently begun to get used to. No one cared for her to dress up now.

She was just a blood bag.

An actual fucking blood bag to the most powerful vampire in the world—William Harrington.

The president and CEO of Visage Incorporated and Beckham’s boss. He was the ruthless ruler who had brought vampires out of the darkness. After the recession had struck, Visage had emerged as if they were a benevolent organization dedicated to helping humanity. What that meant was instating the blood type cure. It wasn’t so much a cure for vampirism as a bandage over the real issue. Vampires who drank blood from a human who matched their blood type became less animalistic and more forward-thinking. They became bloodthirsty monsters in two-thousand-dollar suits, taking over the world.