She rewarded him with another kiss, now much less uncertain, and her lovely live weight settled in his lap. Her knees to either side of his hips, her hand on his chest suddenly free because the fabric between them was intensely irritating, so his claws sprang loose to shear the obstructions away. The Gift was in her, strengthening and changing; stronger than a mortal now, yet still so delicate.
She would never reach even an elder’s strength or speed; leman did not need such things.
A sweet torment, to wait for what she wanted. She gasped as her shirt was stripped; he crushed her against him, his mouth working hungrily, and almost broke when she wriggled as if to escape.
“Mh. Here.” She freed her mouth long enough to whisper again, and her frail fingers pushed at his hands, settling them on the sweet curves of her hips. Still so thin, she needed much more care and feeding—the thrall leapt at the thought, magma filling his bones, and the struggle to keep his fangs contained was far more severe than refraining from the glut.
More mothwing-soft brushes, directing him. He spilled onto his back, every moment of the fall syrup-slow to keep her mouth on his, her slight softness draped across him now, more cloth tearing as he freed them both of any encumbrance.
The kiss grew bolder, though she still retreated restlessly unless his hands stayed where she wanted them—he could caress, though, kneading as she settled, having finally placed her suitor precisely where she wished. Above him she lingered, the silken mass of her hair tumbling loose, the soft velvet furnace of her core lingering just at the tip of his aching, begging shaft.
Her mouth drew away; he longed to keep her. But her lovely seashell hips beckoned, filling his grasp, and she slid with exquisite slowness—down, and down, inch by inch-fraction, closing him in searing, honeyed fire. Her head tipping back, a slight toss of her mane as her teeth caught her lower lip, his leman’s face closed and serene.
He was begging, Lukas realized, in every language he had ever known. The words vanished into the thrall’s purr, a warning and anticipation all at once.
Beatrice straightened, her thighs flexing beautifully...then settled all at once, impaling herself upon her sanguinant.
The thrall took him, his body a tight-strung bow touched with a single divine fingertip. She moved, answering his desire almost before it arose, guided by the subtle shift of his fingers as he held to her satin firmness. Faster, her breath quickening, choosing the angle which most suited her as she pleased herself as well, using him as a tool, an instrument of her own desire.
Watching from under half-closed lids—for she had pushed herself upright, too short to kiss him if she wished to retain this particular rhythm and direction—as his own shape shifted, the secondary prong searching for the most sensitive nubbin high at the crest of Paradise as she suddenly twisted, engulfing him afresh, the movement bowing him once more as he thrust upward, desperate to reach still deeper.
More teasing, or she was still uncertain...but no. A sweet, husky, stuttering moan as she stilled, and he could watch the rosy flush of raw sensuality flood her skin, lush mouth slack as her head tipped back, shudders wringing him dry. His own release burst free, shaking her as well, until she sighed and folded down, coming to rest against him lightly as a leaf, her forehead tucked under his chin.
Miracle. A miracle.
Even if he knew she was still unresigned, even if he suspected she thought to seduce in order to discover a means of escape, he would take it. He would, Lukas discovered, take anything she offered, and more.
CHAPTER 21
An old fantasy, one she’d often jilled herself on. Being on top for a change was a nice feeling. And for a monster, he took direction well. Just disconnecting and letting her body do what it wanted was hard; shame nipped at her, the old misogynist double-bind.
But if it helped her survive—or better, if it helped convince him she was playing along—she’d do it. She would use every trick her college roommates had giggled about or discussed over drinks, plus any she could come up with on her own. Apply whatever’s handy was a self-defense maxim, equally useful here.
Or so she hoped.
Bea draped herself across a hard, warm chest, and for the first time in a very long while she was...almost at peace. It felt goddamn great to have a little control, actually, even if transitory.
His fingertips wandered up her back, slipping through thin cooling sweat, tracing an intricate pattern. That also felt good, until she remembered just who was touching her. But shrieking and leaping off him wasn’t part of the plan.
Besides, her legs probably wouldn’t cooperate, and internal feedback told her she wasn’t going be moving for a while. The shape of his cock had changed, buried deep; every breath caused aftershocks as he twitched, pulsing in response to every slight shift.
Bet that’s fun in other circumstances. At least it was proof positive she’d achieved something. If he was just after the chase, maybe he’d leave her alone now.
She’d figure out what to do about fangs and sunshine allergies later. Bea drifted, listening to the steady slow thump of his heart under her ear, and realized the air was hushed, dead still. The house’s noise was no longer present. No human heartbeats, no slap of freezing sleet, no burst of laughter from somewhere as an indistinct joke reached its punchline.
God, I’d love to laugh with someone again. Mostly Jare; how her brother would wheeze during Monty Python marathons, or when Bea cracked a few salty jokes in her trademark sweet-innocent tone.
That could never happen again. She might not ever gross Don out with a sudden observation about the implications of weird things again either, or hear a burst of merriment from coworkers—even the meatpacking guys had occasionally loosened up enough to jab in her direction. Often Bea gave it right back, sometimes in gutter Spanish definitely not learned at school.
She’d even like to laugh on her own. When was the last time she’d watched a comedy, for Chrissake? Or even seen a funny commercial?
Don’t think I’d want to watch any horror movies, though.
“Beatrice?” Of course the monster wouldn’t act like a human guy and pass out so she could have a few moments to herself.
Still, she didn’t precisely mind the interruption. Her own thoughts were too fucking grim. “Hm?”
“Thank you. It is…not easy, for a leman. I regret that.”
