Chapter Text
You woke up hot.
Not summer-hot, not cramps-hot—wanting hot. Sticky between the thighs, breath caught in your throat, the ghost of a kiss still clinging to your mouth like you’d rolled over and left it on the pillow.
And the ache.
It sat low and deep, curled behind your belly like a secret. A quiet burn. The kind that didn’t just come from cramps or sleep—it came from hunger. Want. The kind that followed dreams with shirtless men in moonlit fields and suspenders sliding down sharp collarbones.
You shifted, thighs pressing together as if you could tame it. You couldn’t. Lord help you, you tried.
Remmick was still out there. You could still hear the damn chair.
Rock… creak.
Rock… creak.
You let your eyes drift closed again, one arm curling behind your head, the other trailing slow down your belly. Just enough pressure to tease. To imagine. To remember.
Friday night.
The grip of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the way his voice had dragged across your skin like honey poured over gravel. And tonight’s dream—him shirtless, eyes full of fire and promise.
Your fingers slipped a little lower.
Just a little.
You were quiet. Careful. You just needed relief. A release. Just enough to settle your nerves and cool that fever that clung to your bones like sin.
You bit down on your lip, a moan catching in your throat the moment your fingers found your clit—slow, tight circles that made your hips twitch. Your other hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to draw another breathless gasp.
You dipped lower, no longer caring about the blood—just heat and need. Your fingers slipped between your folds, parting them with care. Your walls were warm, swollen, aching. Gathering the slickness pooling there, you brought it back to your clit, rubbing slow and steady until your jaw fell slack with the pleasure.
When you finally pushed a finger inside, you did it slow—deliberate—until you were knuckle-deep in your own heat, the stretch making your back arch.
You shifted, lifting your leg and planting your foot on the couch cushion to open yourself wider. The next few seconds were spent swirling inside, teasing, loosening—each movement sending another pulse through your belly.
Your body clenched at the build, and you pulled out, only to slide back in deeper this time, adding a second finger. Your thumb rubbed against your clit, slippery and fast, while your fingers curled just right—
And there it was.
That spot.
You tried not to moan his name aloud, but his face was there behind your eyes, shirtless, sweat-slick, and smug. The image of him from your dream lingered: suspenders hanging loose at his sides, moonlight on his chest, a look in his eyes like he knew every secret you’d ever tried to keep locked away.
If you had been paying attention to anything other than your body, you'd of noticed how fucking wet you sounded. You were getting close, ready to tip off the edge when you heard it.
Remmick’s voice.
“Baby…”
His voice.
Low. Drawn-out. Pained like it hurt him not to be touching you.
You froze like someone had dumped a pail of well water on your chest.
“Sugar,” Remmick groaned, and you could hear the grin behind it. “I can hear ya. You sound so wet.”
A pause. The chair squeaked. You heard a soft thud as he stood up, boots shifting closer to the door.
“You thinkin’ of me?”
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your hand had stilled, breath caught halfway between arousal and horror. You were one more second from coming undone, and now your uninvited vampire guest was eavesdropping on your sinning.
He dropped his voice again, soft and ruined. “You know I’d be so good to you. Remember how good I was?”
The sound of his palm pressed to the wood. Close. Right where you’d leaned minutes earlier, sweaty and aching.
“You let me in,” he whispered, “and I’ll make you come so many times you forget how to spell your name.”
You squeezed your thighs together, shame and desire doing battle across your ribs.
Silence followed.
And then—his voice, rougher now. Wanting.
“You wanna put your fingers back, sugar?” He sounded like he was begging. Real, honest need laced through that smooth drawl. “Pretend I’m kissin’ you down there instead? Go on. I’ll listen.”
You whimpered.
You knew it was a bad idea. Knew you had locked that door for a reason. And still—
You got up slow. Walked barefoot across the wood floor, heartbeat thunderin’ like it was tryna warn you one last time.
You opened the door.
And there he was.
Pressed right up against the frame, like his whole body was straining to step forward. One hand braced against the wood, suspenders hanging loose at his hips like lazy lovers, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to his chest from the southern heat. He looked like temptation made flesh. Eyes bleeding red. Sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
His eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent. And then he saw your hand—slick with your own want and blood, trembling by your side.
He swore, low and sharp.
“Shit, honey…”
You didn’t invite him.
Instead, you turned your back to him. Walked slow, deliberate, and sat down on the couch facing the door—legs parted, knees up, dress bunched around your thighs.
Then you met his eyes.
And you let your fingers slip back between your legs.
Remmick groaned—visibly. His head fell back against the frame with a dull thud. “Goddamn,” he breathed.
You moaned softly, fingers circling, slow and unhurried now, watching him watch you.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, chest rising.
“You tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped.
You didn’t answer. Just slid one hand higher up your body, pulling the top of your dress down. Letting your breast spill out. You squeezed one, slow, thumb brushing over your nipple as your fingers slid between your folds again.
That wet sound returned, louder now with the stillness, and his breath caught sharp in his chest.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes locked on your every movement.
Remmick’s restraint snapped like brittle wood.
He fumbled with his belt—shaking fingers unfastening himself with desperate urgency. You watched, breath catching, as he freed himself, his cock thick and flushed and already leaking for you. He hissed the moment his hand closed around his length, hips jerking forward like the relief was almost painful.
You whimpered at the sight—at the way he stroked himself, slow and reverent, gaze fixed to the place where your fingers worked slick between your thighs.
“That’s it, sugar,” he groaned. “You look so fuckin’ good like that. Open for me. Drippin’ for me. Pussy fuckin painted red like the ripest strawberry. Like your body know who it belongs to.”
You whimpered again, thighs trembling, pressure building sharp and fast.
“Keep touchin’ yourself just like that. Don’t stop. You’re so fuckin tight, I can see it. You gonna put another finger in? Do it baby. Go on, know you'll need to be stretched more to take this fuckin cock.”
You moaned, arching your back slightly, squeezing your breast tighter. Roughly putting another finger in.
“Hey,” he growled, voice snapping sharp. “You be gentle with that sweet pussy. That’s mine. You don’t treat her rough ‘less I’m the one makin’ you.”
You whimpered, fingers slowing just slightly at the command. Your legs trembled where they’d fallen open again, heat spiraling up your spine like you were burning from the inside out.
Remmick leaned closer, forehead pressed to the doorway, voice thick with hunger and reverence.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he crooned. “Real slow now. Let me see you open up for me.”
His grip on his cock faltered for a second—eyes fluttering as his hips rocked into his own hand, knuckles going white on the doorframe. “Fuck—I’d drop to my knees if you let me. Stay between those thighs for days. Wish I could taste you. Wish I could put my mouth on that pretty little spot you’re playin’ with right now.” He growled.
Shit his mouth
“God, I can still remember the taste of ya,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Sweet like fuckin cream. Now you’re bleedin’,” he whispered, breath hitching. “Makes you richer. Warmer. Like honey warmed over the fire. Makes me want you even worse, 'cause I know you’re open. Soft. Ready.”
You arched into your hand, breath ragged, stomach tight.
Remmick,” you whispered—just enough for him to hear it.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “Say it again. Say it like I’m inside you. I want you to come for me, baby,” he panted. “Want to see you fall apart. You close?”
His voice was pure desperation now. Rough. Shaking.
Your breath hitched. You were right there—tight, aching, trembling. And like he commanded it, your body obeyed.
“Remmick,” you gasped again, louder now. “Remmick—”
And just like that, the coil snapped.
You came hard, thighs twitching, hand sticky with slick and blood, gasping his name again like a prayer you hadn’t meant to say out loud.
You cried out, legs shaking, fingers soaked, back arching as the release crashed over you—hot and thick and dizzying. Your eyes stayed locked on his.
And he followed.
Remmick let out a deep, strangled moan—hips jerking, hand stroking fast and brutal now. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, spilling over his hand, over his shirt, body shuddering hard as his forehead thudded against the door.
You sat there in the afterglow, thighs still twitching, chest heaving.
You both sat in it—shaking, panting, burning in the quiet.
Separated by some invisible boundary line of his kind.
But that line?
It wasn’t just thin anymore.
It was bleeding.