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.
My body knew what it wanted. Knew what it needed.
He needed it too. Our hunger, our lust, pulsed between us. Now I understood why the Arachessen banned sex. It was too much. Too powerful.
Though then again, it had never felt like this with any of my other dalliances.
I couldn’t think about that now.
I couldn’t think of anything.
My heat aligned with his cock. When the tip pressed against me, we both let out mangled exhales into each other’s mouths.
But he broke away, breath heaving.
“You’ve never done this before.”
Always a statement, never a question. He knew. How did he know?
“I’ve done enough,” I said. Though even as I said it, it seemed foolish to relate whatever those were—tasks of seduction or curious experimentation—to whatever this would be.
Our bodies shifted against each other in minute, involuntarily movements. His length twitched against my folds, slick, and though we both bit back our moans, I felt the shiver of our barely-constrained lust through the threads.
Animals against bars.
Bars that were breaking.
“I’ll start slow,” he ground out. “But it may be difficult for me to—If I start to lose control—”
His words were clumsy and awkward. But I didn’t need words to understand him. Ravenous, he had said.
Atrius was a man terrified of losing control. And I was asking him to balance on the knife’s edge.
I kissed him, deeply, our tongues mingling as his cock strained at my entrance once again. He was shaking. Weaver, I was shaking.
“I don’t need you to be gentle with me,” I whispered.
No. I wanted all of it.
His teeth closed around my lip, his nostrils flaring.
His mouth trailed to my ear, suckling at my lobe for a moment, before whispering, firmly, “Tell me to stop, and I stop.”
And then he pushed.
Weaver fucking save me.
My thighs spread wider. I clutched him, my fingers clawing at his shoulders, as he impaled me, inch by inch. My body was begging for this, begging for him to be inside me—and yet the pain was there, too, undeniable, acute and burning as I stretched around him. When I thought there couldn’t possibly be more of him, my awareness moved down to find several inches of thick, glistening flesh between us.