I should stop. Should take only what I need and withdraw.
I take more.
Not enough to harm her. Never that. But enough to savor. Enough to feel trulyfedfor the first time in decades.
Her other hand comes up to my hair, fingers threading through it with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. "It's okay," she whispers. "Take what you need."
I am trying to be careful. Controlled. Everything I have been trained to be.
But her permission, her trust, the way sheoffersinstead of merely tolerating.
Something in me cracks.
My free hand moves to her waist. I pull her forward, not roughly, but deliberately, until she slides from the chair and into the space between my knees where I kneel. Close. So close I can feel the heat radiating from her body, can smell the herbs in her hair mixed with something sweeter. Her scent surrounds me.
She makes a small sound: surprise, maybe, but not protest. Her hand tightens in my hair.
I adjust my hold on her wrist, drawing her even closer as I feed. Through the bond, I feel what she feels, the lingering sting of the bite transforming into liquid warmth. The way it pools low in her belly, makes her skin flush, her breath quicken. The way my closeness affects her, the solid press of my body against hers.
She likes this. More than tolerates it. Shelikesit.
And I...
God help me, I like it too.
I have fed a thousand times over the centuries. Always clinical. Always dutiful. Never like this. Never with this heat building between us, never with a woman in my arms, never with our hearts racing in counterpoint through the bond. Never with her melting against me like she belongs there.
When I finally force myself to pull away, we are both breathing hard.
My mouth is stained with her blood. Her wrist is marked with my bite. She is still pressed close, caught between my body and where the chair used to be, and she shows no inclination to move. Between us, the bond hums with an awareness that was not there before.
She is looking at me with eyes that are dark and wanting and entirely unafraid.
"That was different," she says, voice breathless.
"Yes." I am still holding her wrist, and she is still pressed against me, close enough that I can feel every breath she takes. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." She doesn't pull away, doesn't create distance. If anything, she leans into me slightly. "Did you feel it? Through the bond?"
"Yes."
"Me too." A pause. "I felt you. Your hunger. But also..." She touches my face again, that same gentle gesture. "You felt relieved. Like you've been starving for a very long time."
I have been. I am only now realizing how deeply.
"Cadeon." My name on her lips is barely a whisper.
Her thumb brushes across my lower lip. I realize with a start that there is still blood there. Her blood. She traces it gently, her touch feather-light, and through the bond I feel her fascination. Her want.
"Iris." My voice comes out rough an deep. A warning. A plea. I am not certain which.
"Can I ask you something?" She shifts closer, fully settling into my lap now, her knees on either side of my thighs. The position brings us eye to eye, and I cannot look away.
I cannot speak. Cannot think past the way she feels against me, warm and alive andhere. I manage a nod.
"When was the last time someone kissed you?"
The question hits me low and deep in my gut. "I... centuries. I don't..."
