Slaying the Vampire Conqueror(74)

I wanted him against me immediately, skin against skin. But he hesitated. His awareness was such a physical force. I could feel his eyes lingering on my body, not just my breasts and the apex of my thighs, but the rest of me, too—every muscle, every curve.

And then his lust crested in a sudden wave, washing us both away, and he was everywhere.

His kiss was vicious, like a predator chasing down prey, and I met it with equal force. The sensation of his bare flesh against mine was overwhelming.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

His hands ran over my body, down my hips, lingering at my backside. I tangled my hands in his hair. I barely realized I was moaning against him, pathetic whimpers against his kisses.

I freed one hand to slide it down his body. I was bolder than I had been that night in his room. This time, I slid right into his trousers, running my grip down the length of his cock.

Oh, Weaver. Gods.

He hissed into my mouth and closed his teeth around my lower lip, making me gasp at the spark of pain.

I barely noticed it.

How could I pay attention to anything but this? But him, and the way his whole presence rearranged around that single touch?

His kiss stopped, movements slowing. He was breathing heavily, his heart thrumming hard—so hard I felt the beat of it in my own skin.

He pulled back, just enough to look at me, a stare that rippled through my entire body.

And then he dropped to his knees.

“Open your thighs for me,” he commanded, and didn’t even let me obey before he positioned one of my legs over his shoulder, his mouth finding my center.

Holy fucking gods—

He wasn’t patient. Neither of us had that in us tonight. The first lick, demanding and starving, sent me a wave of pleasure that swept away everything else. I had to bite my tongue hard, so hard, right over that scar ridge, against my scream of pleasure, and still released a mangled moan.

He buried himself deeper between my legs, tongue unleashing a surge of impossible sensation. At my whimper, he let out a pleased growl that made me shiver.

I’d felt pleasure before. But this—I couldn’t—

“Wider,” he growled, urging my thighs apart. There was no playfulness in this, no flirtation. Only command.

I obeyed, challenging as it was when my legs were trembling. One of his hands slid up my body, flattening just shy of my breasts—holding me firmly against the stone, as if to make sure I remained upright.

“Mm,” he murmured. “Better.”

This time, with the better access he had, I couldn’t choke back my scream. My back arched against the rock in a violent spasm as his tongue worked at me—licking the length of my slit, pausing to tease at my bud, returning to my entrance.

With each movement of his mouth, I unraveled more.

My heart was pounding, like a trapped rabbit. My skin burned. Weaver, what was he doing to me? I wanted more of it. All of it.

Pain, faintly, as his sharp fingernails tug into the tender skin of my thigh, as he pushed it open further—so he could plunge his tongue into me.

Fractured curses imbued my garbled moans, as he returned to my clit.

Then he smiled against me, and I could feel something hard—something sharp—against that sensitive flesh, that flesh that begged for everything from him—

And I felt his hunger. His lust.

All of it matched by mine.

“Yes,” I choked out. “Do it.”

I didn’t question my own irrational willingness. I wanted it.

The reaction of his presence was swift and immediate, like the twitch of his cock in my hands.

The hand on my stomach, now the only thing keeping me upright, trailed fingers back and forth along my skin.

I understood what that movement was saying: I will not hurt you.

His mouth moved to my inner thigh. His teeth bit quick, a strike that made me gasp—more pleasure than pain, and whatever little pain there was disappeared when he drank.

Weaver help me. Weaver kill me.

I had heard that vampire venom could have a... pleasurable effect on human prey. But this was beyond my wildest expectations. Every nerve was aflame, pulsing from that wound. My hips bucked against him, chasing more, chasing friction, chasing penetration—fruitlessly, because he held me firmly still against the wall, at his mercy.

“Gods. Atrius—Weaver—I—”

The words were unintentional, jumbled, slurred.

His satisfaction rolled through me, the threads drawn so taut between us that we were like one being. With a satisfied moan, his lips left my wound. When they returned to my slit, his mouth was warm and wet—with my blood and my desire.

And when he feasted upon me this time, licking the blood clean with thorough care, he slid two fingers inside of me.

This time, I had to bite down on my hand to dampen my scream. My knuckles tightened around his hair. My body writhed in his grasp.

I fell into utter oblivion.

And when I became aware of my body again, Atrius’s presence was all around me once more, his body pressed to me, his mouth against mine, leaving the taste of blood and sweat and my own desire on my lips, sweet and salty. My thighs had parted around his hips, his hands and the pressure against the rocks keeping me up.

Already, my hips were moving against the hardness of his cock, my hands sliding down his trousers until the hot flesh sprang free.