And that—more than her blood, more than the cure, more than the power she represents—is what I crave most of all.
42
Jules
At first, I don’t understand what Lucian is doing.
He kisses his way down my body slowly, deliberately, as though he’s savoring every inch of me. His mouth is warm, his touch unhurried, and despite the deep, coiling ache in my abdomen, my skin prickles everywhere he touches. He worships the slope of my shoulder, the valley between my breasts, the soft swell of my stomach. He lingers there, nuzzling the gentle curve, his breath hot through the thin silk of my nightgown.
This is… nice, I think hazily, lost in the sensation of being adored. But also—where is he going?
Then his large, warm hands slide to my thighs. He grips them gently, his thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin just above my knees. He nudges them apart, not forcing, just asking—a silent request that sends a jolt of awareness straight to my core.
Panic flares, bright and sudden.
“What are you doing?” I demand, my breath hitching as another vicious cramp tightens low and hard inside me, a cruel reminder of reality.
“I want to make you feel better,” he murmurs, his voice a calm, steady anchor in the storm of my discomfort. “If you’ll let me.”
“Make me feel better how?” I ask, even though part of me already knows, the idea taking shape in the fog of pain and his overwhelming presence.
His dark gaze lifts to mine, holding me captive. “By tasting you.” He says it plainly, a fact. “Because of my nature, I have blood magic. I can draw the flow down, ease the pain in your body, soothe the muscles clenching inside you.” A pause, his eyes searching mine. “But only if you allow me. Only if you give yourself to me completely in this.”
My heart stutters against my ribs.
“You… you want to put your mouth on me?” I blurt, the words clumsy and too loud in the quiet room. “Right now? When I’m—when I’m bleeding?”
I can’t believe I’m even saying this out loud. Years of conditioning rise up all at once—embarrassment, shame, that old, ugly whisper that this part of me is something to hide, something unclean, especially now. I feel exposed—vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity.
Lucian looks at me patiently, almost sadly, as if he can hear every one of those poisonous thoughts.
“My darling,” he says softly, the endearment a balm, “I am a vampire. Blood is the essence of my being. The source of my power, my pleasure, my very existence. The idea that any part of you could be anything less than sacred to me is an insult to us both.”
“But I thought you wanted to drink from my wrist,” I say weakly, grasping for familiar ground. “Or my neck. Not… not there.” I swallow, the confession burning my throat. “Isn’t that blood… dirty? Different?”
His eyes flash, fierce and unmistakably offended, a storm crossing his features.
“No part of you is dirty,” he says, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You are beautiful. Exquisite. Every soft curve, every secret place. This,” he says, his hand sliding higher up my thigh, a hair’s breadth from where I ache, “is a part of you. Therefore, it is perfect. It is life. It is power. And right now, it is calling to me.”
I hesitate, still uncertain, swimming in a sea of old shame and new, terrifying possibility.
“So you really don’t mind… tasting me right now? You want to?”
A low, possessive growl rumbles in his chest. “Little one,” he says, his voice dropping to that velvet-dark register that makes my stomach flutter, “I have been longing to taste you since the moment I first saw you in the Crimson Eye. I have dreamed of parting your lovely thighs and burying my face in your sweet pussy, of learning every flavor of your arousal, your pleasure. To taste you is a privilege, a gift. It is a depth of intimacy I have craved with no other.” He leans closer, his lips brushing my inner thigh, and I gasp at the contact. “Now—will you let me ease your pain? Will you let me worship you as you deserve?”
Another strong cramp hits me then, sharp and twisting enough that I gasp and curl inward despite myself, a small sound of distress escaping me.
That does it. The pain shreds the last of my hesitation.
“All right,” I pant, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperation and trust. “If you can make the pain stop… do it. Do whatever you want. Please.”
His expression softens instantly, the fierce intensity melting into something tender and patient.
“Just relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hands soothing on my trembling thighs. “Let go. Let me take care of you. All you have to do is feel.”
He eases my thighs apart, his touch reverent, and lowers himself between them. The world narrows to the sight of his dark head bowed, to the feeling of his warm breath ghosting over my pussy through the damp silk. He lifts the silk ivory nightgown, his eyes never leaving mine, watching for any sign of refusal but I don’t protest. At this point, I’m in so much pain I’m willing to let him do anything to stop it.
The first sensation I feel is warmth—the heat of his mouth pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over my mound, through my neatly trimmed curls. Then pressure—gentle and knowing—as he dips lower and his tongue finds me.
