His thumbs rub slow circles on either side of my spine, working his way down until he’s on his knees behind me. My heart starts to pound, but my body is loose; I brace one palm against the shower wall as his hands skim over my ass before beginning to work on my thighs. My dress is soaked through atthis point, clinging to me. But his hands don’t wander anywhere untoward as he washes the back of my legs.
He turns me again, and my eyes drift open to see him kneeling on the shower floor, soaked through, gazing at me through strands of wet, dark hair. His white shirt is smeared with paint, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils huge and dark. The air is thick and hot between us, steam filling the bathroom.
He takes one of my feet into his lap, just like he did when he painted me. It draws my eyes to the obvious bulge where his wet trousers cling to him.
My heart races, my breath hitching. I have a thousand dirty thoughts that all violate our contract… and one that doesn’t. “Claude…”
His fingers slide up my calf, over my knee. “Yes?”
“Are you… thirsty?”
He stares up at me, pupils growing.
I lean back against the wall and lift my foot, trailing it over his chest before placing it on his shoulder.
He turns his head, just slightly, and I feel the faint press of fangs against my thigh. “Here…?” he murmurs against my skin, barely audible.
“Yes.”
I cry out as his teeth sink into my inner thigh. My heel hooks around his shoulder, pulling him closer.
“Oh, God,” I whimper, shaking. When my other leg gives out, Claude grabs it and lifts it onto his other shoulder without pause. He holds me effortlessly against the wall, hands cupping my ass, still drinking from me.
It’s too much, too good. Each pull of his mouth sends throbs of pleasure through my thigh, straight to my core. I grab a fistful of his dark curls, fingers digging into his scalp, not to push him away but to hold him there against me.
With my eyes shut, I feel when his fangs recede, when he closes the punctures with a soft kiss. I keep my grip on his hair, unwilling to let this be over yet.
“Nora,” he groans after a moment. “I can’t…”
I loosen my grip until he’s able to disentangle himself. He moves, and without him supporting my legs, I slowly slide down the wall until I’m seated on the shower floor. I open my eyes to find him still kneeling in front of me with an agonized expression. My dress is soaked through, my legs still parted, so I’m sure I’m giving him an eyeful, but I’m beyond the point of caring.
“This is torture,” he whispers.
My head thumps back against the wall. “The damn contract,” I whisper. In this moment, when I feel wild and wanton and entirely unlike myself, I’m finally willing to admit I might have made a mistake.
“The damn contract,” he agrees. His hand brushes over the front of his too-tight trousers as he adjusts himself, and my gaze follows the motion.
It gives me another idea. An idea I shouldn’t have, let alone voice, but…
“Would it break the contract,” I say slowly, “if we were to… only touch ourselves?”
Claude pauses. “You mean…”
I slowly slide my hand down my stomach without breaking eye contact. He’s the one forced to look away, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a hard swallow, his eyes on the ceiling as he considers. “The contract forbids intimate contact, excluding biting,” he says slowly, as if struggling to remember.
“So as long as we don’t touch each other, we’re not in breach of the contract.”
“I suppose not,” Claude says. “But—” His eyes drop to me, and he stops as he sees my hand between my legs. “Nora,” he says hoarsely.
“What?” I whisper. “You don’t want to?”
“We shouldn’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His hand drifts to the button of his trousers but pauses there. “I’m not sure I can control myself.”
“You can,” I say. “I trust you.”
