“Good girl,” I groan as I pulse into her. “Such a good girl to take me so deep…to take my cum in your sweet little cunt!”
She moans and grinds against me, begging for more and I give it to her, pulsing into her again and again until both of us are completely drained.
I have to be honest with myself—this is a claiming. Even without the full Soul-Bond it has formed a partial tether that I can feel snapping into place in the metaphysical shadows of my soul.
It’s a hook in my heart, which will now forever be tied to hers.
“Oh, Lucian…that was so good,” Julia moans. “It was exactly what I needed—thank you.”
She collapses atop me, finally spent, the frantic energy of the Passion wine dissipated at last. I hold her there, still joined, as our breathing slows. I stroke her hair, feeling the new, fragile connection humming between us—a connection that means I am now, irrevocably, hers.
And I know, with a certainty that dwarfs all my centuries of existence, that I would pay this price a thousand times over.
62
Jules
I wake slowly, drifting up from sleep with the faint crackle of fire in my ears and the lingering warmth of another body still ghosting the sheets to my left.
My body feels…sore…tender…used in the best possible way.
As consciousness filters in, the memory of last night—vivid and visceral— playing behind my closed eyelids. The desperate heat of the wine…the guilt about Hanna…my uncertainty about the future…all of it dissolving under the relentless, hot strokes of Lucian’s tongue.
I can still feel the ghost of it between my thighs—the way he’d feasted on me like he was starving, and I was his only sustenance…his low growls of approval vibrating against my sensitive flesh when I came apart, sobbing his name.
Then I remember the way I mounted him. The shameless, delicious way I took him inside…the incredible fullness of him inside me…the stretch of my inner walls as I sank down, taking him deep and then deeper.
I love remembering how he’d filled me so completely—so deeply, it felt less like being penetrated and more like being owned. I remember the look in his eyes—a mix of awe, possessiveness, and a tenderness that stole my heart—as he whispered, “That’s right, sweetheart. Ride me.”
I bite my lip as I remember my hips moving…finding a rhythm that worked for both of us…the sound of skin meeting skin…the delicious friction… Not to mention the way my body clenched around him, trying to pull him even deeper inside as I came so hard on his thick cock.
Heat blooms low in my belly, followed quickly by confusion as I remember what happened after the first time I came on him. I asked him to bite me…and he refused. Why?
Why wouldn’t he bite me?
I asked him to—almost begged him to. I remember wanting it—wanting his fangs in my throat—wanting that final claiming intimacy he’d hinted at before. Wanting to give him everything.
And yet, he refused, gently but firmly.
Why?
I turn my head and realize I’m alone in the bed.
Lucian is already up, already dressed in another one of his immaculate, tailored suits—dark, elegant, and expensive. He stands near the fire, reviewing a sheaf of papers like nothing world-altering happened between us a few hours ago.
He looks… composed…untouched by our lovemaking. Almost like last night didn’t change him at all.
“Come and have some breakfast, little one,” he says when he notices me watching him. “We have quite a task ahead of us—you’ll need your strength.”
I swallow hard and my chest tightens for reasons I don’t quite understand. Does he really not feel it? The connection we formed last night? I mean, I know it wasn’t the Soul-Bond he said I wasn’t ready for, but I’m sure I feel something between us. I’ve never had sex that was so intense—so consuming before. But it doesn’t seem to have affected my Vampire Don at all.
I push myself upright and slide into the crimson satin robe he’s left out for me—the same one as before. It glides over my skin, decadent and silky against my bare skin.
The sitting area by the fire is already laid out with breakfast—and what a breakfast it is.
A silver tray gleams in the firelight, laden with flaky pastries brushed with honey, soft eggs folded with herbs, sliced fruit arranged like jewels, warm bread with whipped butter, and a porcelain pot of tea steaming gently beside a cup of dark coffee and a little silver jug of cream. Everything looks perfect.
And yet my stomach is in knots and I’m not hungry.
