Nolan POV: Feeding from Donovan the Summer Before Bound Spirit.


1 month after Felix’s death

There’s a loud slam of a fist meeting the hood of the 1965 Shelby Cobra I’m currently under, and my head smacks into the undercarriage.

“Shit!” I shout. The socket wrench in my hand clatters to the floor.

Two large hands grab my ankles and tug me out from under the car.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Donovan says, smirking down at me.

“It is my fucking house,” I grumble, annoyed and rubbing at my forehead with my arm, trying not to spread engine grease all over my face.

I get up from my creeper, pull a rag out of the back pocket of my jeans, and try to wipe some of the grease from my fingers. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been MIA, so I’m checking up on you,” he replies simply, crossing his arms over his expansive chest. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is practically painted on and glows against his tanned olive skin. He squints at me with irked judgement darkening his vibrant blue-green eyes. “You look like fucking death. When was the last time you fed?”

“A few days ago,” I answer, looking down at my hands.

“Bullshit,” he grunts.

Donovan strides closer to me, grabs my chin, and lifts my face towards him. His gaze takes in the sickly pallor to my already pale skin, the purple smudges that cling to my eyes, and the sunken shadows that put my sharp features into a deathly contrast.

“You want to try that again,” he growls. He punctuates every word when he once again asks, “When was the last time you fed?”

I jerk my face away and turn. Unconsciously, I touch at the newly healed tattoo on my right shoulder-- symbols of each of us tied to Felix. The grease from my fingers spread across my skin, and I storm across the garage to the work bench that has the tub of mechanics wipes. I slap my rag onto the counter and tug one of the wipes out. Furiously, I scrub at the grease on my hands, arms, shoulder and chest.

“Nolan,” Donovan barks.

“I don’t know,” I sneer. “A while ago. Haven’t really been in the socializing mood.”

“So you were what? Planning to waste away working on your damn car?” His gravelly voice rumbles with frustration. He stalks up behind me, grabs my shoulder, and spins me around to look at him. “You starving yourself doesn’t help Felix.”

I glare back at him, but Donovan clearly doesn’t give a shit. He grabs my wrist and starts dragging me out of the garage and into the house.

“Come on,” he grumbles. “You can feed off of me.”

He drags me like a spoiled toddler through the foyer and up the main staircase. The house is void of people, Alicia, our chef, and Margaret, our housekeeper, both gone for the night. My parents are at some conference in Los Angeles.

“I am capable of walking all by myself,” I mutter sullenly. It’s much cooler in the house than the garage, and I shiver, my naked flesh breaking out in goosebumps.

“Are you?” He challenges. “I thought you were capable of feeding yourself, too, but here we are. If you didn’t want to fucking find someone, why didn’t you just text me?”

“Because nephilim are friends, not food?” I joke, misquoting Finding Nemo.

This earns me a patent Donovan scowl over his shoulder and more annoyed dragging up the stairs and to my suite of rooms. Margaret must have done her magic before leaving, because the sitting room looks straitened and livable, unlike the mess I left it this morning.

He releases me once we’re inside and walks toward the large couch that faces the equally huge television and entertainment center. The room is a den that my friends and I can hang out in, but when you’re posh and living in a manor, they call it a sitting room.

Donovan grabs between his shoulder blades, pulling his shirt up over his head, and then throws it over his shoulder. His muscles ripple with the movement, the long, black feathers of his wings tattoo flexing and shifting across his broad back. The tattooed phrase Omnem diem contere velut ultima along his spine that roughly translates to “Live each day as if it’s the last” is still pink around the edges.

He plops down down on the far edge of the black, leather couch and looks at me with a Why the fuck are you still standing there? face.

I sigh and go sit next to him, turning to face him with one leg bent up on the couch and the other on the floor. Both legs brush against his left one. “For the record, I wasn’t intentionally starving myself. I just...”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively. “More drinking, less talking.”

A smirk plays across my lips. “Please don’t tell me you’ve used that line on girls.”

Donovan holds out his left arm to me and quirks up one of his heavy, black brows. “I don’t need lines.”

He uses his other hand to gesture along his firm chest, washboard abs, and prominent Adonis belt that V's into his low slung, dark wash jeans. A trail of dark hair leads from his belly button down to his waistband, where there is no sign of elastic from any underwear, implying he’s probably going commando.

“I don’t even need words,” he adds cockily.

It’s a dickish thing to say, but he isn’t wrong. I’m man enough to admit my friend is fucking hot. From the top of his 6’3” frame down to his size 14 boots, and the long, thick cock he has tucked away behind his zipper, he’s walking sex. Angel blood and physical training has served him well.

I take his offered arm into my hands, adjust it so the smooth side of his forearm faces up, and lean over it, resting his elbow on my knee.

Donovan relaxes his body, slouching down a little and leaning his head back. He releases a throaty moan when my teeth sink into his flesh. The fact that he embraces the sensations that flood his system from my bite is what makes this bearable.

The time I fed from Connor, he was so damn stoic that no one would know he was feeling anything if it wasn’t for the raging hard-on in his pants. Kaleb looked anywhere but at me, and his body was so rigid, I’ve seen marble statues look more relaxed. I took them up on their offers once, but never again, if I can help it. Feeding from my friends is difficult enough as is; I don’t need to add their awkward. Donovan with his more adventurous approach to life has fortunately just rolled with it, enjoying instead of fighting the pleasure and arousal that goes with a vampire bite.

His blood has a rich and heady flavor as it floods my mouth and down my throat, a copper aftertaste coating my tongue. Pleasure heats his skin, and the earthy scent of leather and musk fills my nose. I groan and lap greedily as his life force restores me, the tired and sluggish feeling of my starving body slowly washing away.

My cock grows hard watching out of the corner of my eye Donovan’s right hand sliding down to the growing bulge in his pants. He grips himself, the heel of his palm pressing hard against his zipper. A rumbling purr emanates from his chest, and I flick my gaze to his face, just catching his eyes, heavy with lust, drooping closed and his teeth sinking into his generous bottom lip.


I’m quickly regretting my decision to wear fitted jeans this morning. When the person I’m with gets turned on, I get turned on. Man or woman, doesn’t matter. The sounds of building pleasure pouring from their lips. The growing heat of their skin, the scent of arousal perfuming the air around them. It fucking gets me. And when they come in sexy packages, all the better.

As one hunger begins to sate, another rages forward. I want to touch and be touched. To bring us both to bone melting release. I slide my left hand up his thigh, pushing his hand away, and stroke his cock through the pant leg of his jeans.

He gasps, his head tilting further back and his breaths are heaving flurries. “I’ve told you, you don’t have to do that,” he breathes. “I’m just as capable of jerking myself off.”

I lap clean the puncture wound on his arm, my saliva sealing over and healing most of the damage.

I look up at him, licking my lips and catching any remaining blood clinging to my mouth, and say, “I get complete strangers off after feeding from them. You think I’m going to do less for you?” My gaze drifts down his body, taking in the sculpted lines of muscle, to where my hand is firmly pressed against his dick. “Besides you’re horny. I’m horny. And last time I checked, someone else’s mouth feels a whole lot better than your own hand.”

Donovan’s brows shoot up in surprise. Probably, because this is the first time I’ve made this offer. Due to my situation, I have a very healthy sex life, and since it’s been awhile since I fed, it’s been awhile since I’ve had any action either. Just the idea of sucking his cock has me hard enough to hammer nails.

With the lust for blood and sex coursing through my veins, I can feel the predator in me taking over. The sensuous flow to my body that makes every human I meet want to fuck me. I lean up, stretching until my mouth is near his ear and purr, “And I wasn’t done yet, so now I’m going to have to bite you again.” My lips graze down his neck, and I can feel the full body shiver that goes through him. Against his skin, I murmur, “Now take out your cock.”

He hesitates, his breath coming out in heavy pants. This is a side of me he hasn’t seen. A side of me that really none of my friends see, because experiencing the truth of what I am is a hell of a lot different than intellectually knowing it. But I know he’s going to do exactly as I tell him to, because he’s too far gone not to. My voice and body promise too much pleasure.

Donovan swallows heavily and reaches down, popping the button and unzipping his jeans. He shifts a bit, then reaches down and pulls himself free, his dick heavy and rigid against his thighs.

Straddling his lap, I reach between us to grasp his large cock, which twitches in my right hand. I hold his gaze while I stroke him, generous amounts of pre-cum making him slick.

His eyes widen, and he releases a shuddered moan, surprised and turned on by the predatory fire in the arctic blue of my eyes. His hands fist at his sides.

Continuing to stroke him with a slow, firm grip, I fist my other hand into this thick black hair and lean down to the left side of his neck. I lick a long moist trail down his skin, turning his breath choppy. I nuzzle his neck before my fangs once again retract down over my incisors, and I sink my teeth into his fevered flesh.

“Oh shit,” he utters in a breathless whisper, quivering under the heightened sensations of my second bite.

His blood tastes even better this time, flowing into my mouth and dripping down my chin, the desire for sexual release heightening all my senses. I groan thinking about bending him over the couch and fucking him hard in that firm, tight ass of his.

His hands shift to my hips-- his thick, long fingers digging into my skin. He bucks into my hand, silently begging me to go faster, but I control when he comes and he doesn’t have my permission yet.

I release his hair to trail my fingers down his right arm, sliding along the toned muscles that are damp with sweat, to his hand that I pull to the painful erection trapped in my jeans. I press myself against his hand, encouraging him to touch me like I’m touching him. My moan vibrates against his skin when he obliges me.

I’m not small, but his hands are massive and make a tight grip around me. Pre-cum drips into his hand while he slides up and down my shaft in a corkscrew pattern.

We both moan and thrust into each others hands, the sounds of my pleasure trapped against his skin while his reverberates through the room. It feels so fucking good, but when I’ve fed enough, I