The Den

Everything Needs A Joke

I woke up convinced I was dreaming. Alex lay beside me, his lips trailing soft kisses along my neck, his warm hand resting on my bare hip—the same Alex who had steadfastly avoided sharing my bed whenever I slept unclothed like this.

"Well good morning to you too," I teased, arching an eyebrow, but the intensity in his eyes revealed this wasn't mere playful banter.

"Sierra, is it okay?" he whispered, his voice husky with restraint, eyes searching mine for permission. "Please say it's okay. I've been fighting this feeling for so long, and I don't know how much longer I can maintain my self-control." His fingers trembled slightly against my skin, betraying the depth of his desire.

"We've been married for three days," I murmured, my consciousness still wrapped in the hazy cocoon of sleep. My eyelids fluttered against the morning light as I nestled deeper into the warmth of our shared bed. "I believe that was essentially my way of giving consent, wasn't it?" A soft smile played across my lips as memories of our whirlwind wedding drifted through my mind, each moment still vivid and precious despite my drowsy state.

"Can you take anything seriously, Sierra?" he asked, shaking his head with a mixture of frustration and amusement.

"No, I'm afraid it's chronic," I replied with a half-smile. "Trust me, I wish I could turn it off. I annoy myself, but it's apparently woven into my DNA."

"Would you shut up so I can do this right?" Alex joked. The slight quiver in his voice betrayed his nervousness. I felt it too—butterflies dancing in my stomach.

"How do we even proceed? I mean, aren't you supposed to be the professor here?" I smiled at him, trying to mask my own anxiety with humor. Then he pulled the blanket back, and for a minute he just sat there, his gaze traveling over me with such reverence that my breath caught in my throat. I pushed up onto my elbows, starting to feel self-conscious under his intense scrutiny, but the admiration in his eyes melted away my insecurity.

He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder, whispering "nobody should be allowed to be so perfect" against my skin. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down my spine as he kissed up to my neck, placing his hand gently on my side and turning me to face him.

When his lips met mine, I felt him shaking—nervous, unsure, vulnerable. "I've written about it so much, but I don't know if I can be one of those guys," he admitted. In that moment, the confident academic disappeared, leaving just Alex—raw and honest, his defenses completely lowered. He looked almost human, more real than I'd ever seen him.

So I decided to drop the icebreaker for him, so to speak.

As we kissed, I wrapped my arms around his neck and rolled onto my back, drawing him with me. His desire was evident, yet hesitation lingered in his movements.

"Alex, it's ok. I'm ready, I promise," I whispered against his ear, my fingers tracing the contours of his shoulders. His lips found mine as he eased forward, his gentleness suggesting he feared causing pain. Truth be told, discomfort did arise initially, but after all his consideration and patience, I couldn't bring myself to mention it. Besides, I knew the sensation would fade quickly. When it stung, I simply pulled him closer and deepened our kiss to mask my wincing. The distraction proved effective.

Our first moments together weren't the passionate scene from a romance novel. Instead, they carried an endearing awkwardness, our movements tentative and uncoordinated as we discovered each other's rhythms and responses. The gentle fumbling of hands, the hesitant kisses—each touch revealed our vulnerability and desire to please one another.

And let's be honest, after waiting four centuries before feeling a woman's touch, my husband's first experience didn't last long. The culmination of centuries of longing released in mere moments, his face a mixture of ecstasy and surprise.

But after that initial release, something transformed in him. A tension I hadn't even realized he carried seemed to melt away. He never pulled away as I had feared he might. Instead, he smiled—a genuine smile that reached his eyes—and kissed me tenderly, his lips lingering until his desire rekindled. He remained close, his body pressed against mine, maintaining our intimate connection. His movements evolved, becoming quick, deliberate, forceful—each thrust purposeful and confident. The most maddening part was the knowing smirk that played across his lips as he watched my reactions, clearly delighting in every gasp and shudder he elicited from me. What surprised me most was my own response—I didn't hate it. In fact, the intensity in his eyes as he claimed me stirred something primal within me I hadn't known existed.

Within minutes he had me engulfed in constant rolling waves of white heat. My nails dug into his shoulders as desire coursed through my veins. I pulled myself upward toward him, my fangs extending instinctively from the intensity of the moment. Without hesitation, I bit him.

I'm not entirely sure what compelled me to do it—perhaps the primal urge that had been building between us—but I surrendered to the impulse.

To my surprise, he didn't recoil. Quite the opposite.

The second my fangs pierced his skin, every muscle in his body tensed. A tremor ran through him, powerful and electric, before he collapsed against me, his weight a delicious pressure pinning me to the bed. "Nope, this is our life now. I'm not moving," he declared, his voice husky with satisfaction before launching into an exaggerated, theatrical snoring that vibrated against my chest.

I suppressed a laugh, feeling the warmth of affection spread through me alongside the lingering heat of passion. All this time I thought I was the playful one in this marriage, the one who brought levity to our most intimate moments. Perhaps we were more alike than I realized—two souls finding humor even in our most vulnerable states.