“Stop! Please.Pleasestop.”
He presses his fingertip into the wound.
White explodes behind my eyes. The pain is a living thing now, pulsing with my heartbeat, radiating up my wrist and into my forearm. He smears the blood across my palm in slow circles.
Then he lifts my hand higher.
I brace for another cut, another bright new line of agony. My breath comes too fast, the world spinning in dizzying turns.
He dips his head … and presses his mouth to my palm.
No!
His lips are hot against the wound.Too hot. Hotter than skin should ever be. I try to pull back, try to wrench free, but his grip is iron.
His tongue touches the cut, a rough, wet drag through open flesh and I feel it everywhere. In my hand, my arm, my chest. My whole body goes rigid.
The sensation is wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He drags his tongue through the wound again, slower this time, gathering the blood against it in one long stroke.
Every nerve ending screams.
“What are you—” My voice is high and thin. “What are you doing?”
He swallows. My stomach heaves. I can see his throat move. He’s taking my blood into his body. I twist in his grip, gagging, and his fingers dig into my wrist until the bones grind together.
His tongue moves over my palm again, and this time … this time the sensation doesn’t stay where it should.
No. No, no, no.
This is a monster with his mouth on my skin, drinking my blood. There isnothingabout this that should feel like anything except terror, agony, and violation.
But my body isn’t listening.
Every nerve is focused on the swipe of his tongue, the pull of him drawing blood from my palm. Something deep inside is coiling,tightening, waking up in response to his mouth on me.
A low sound vibrates against my palm. Satisfaction.Pleasure.
He’s enjoying this.
Horror crashes through me, thick enough that I choke on it. My body is responding to him, tothis. And he knows. He has to know. He can probably taste it inmy blood, feel the way my pulse has changed.
His tongue licks through the cut again, slower than before, and my back arches.
I can’t stop it. My body bows toward him, and a sound comes out of me—high and breathless, and nothing I’ve ever made before.
The shame hits me so hard that my knees buckle.
I’m making sounds for him. My body is arching for him. He’s drinking my blood, and I’m … I’m?—
Tears spill down my cheeks, dripping over my lips, tasting of salt.
I hate him.I hate him with every shred of self I have. But I hate myself more for responding. For making those sounds and for the heat between my thighs that I can’t deny, can’t control, and can’t take back.
His lips press harder against my palm.
