I lower my head and press my mouth to hers.
She goes rigid. Her lips clamp together, her jaw locks, and her body turns to stone under me. I angle my head, applying pressure, coaxing her mouth to soften. She tastes like salt from her tears, the sweet tea she drank downstairs …
And fear. She tastes like fear.
I had lovers before the Sealing. Females I chose, and who chose me. We kissed because I wanted to, because desire sparked between us, and because touch was a gift freely given. This isn’t that … and there’s no disguising it … not unless she stops fighting me.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and her head twists away, evading me. I bring one hand to her face, and turn it back to mine, so I can capture her mouth again. This time her lips part to protest, I have no doubt. I don’t give her the chance. I deepen the kiss instead.
For a second, she lies there frozen. Then slowly her lips move against mine, the tension in her shoulders easing, and her body softens beneath mine. I release her wrists, and she doesn’t move her arms, leaving them where they are, stretched out above her head.
I pull back to look at her. Her lips are parted, her eyes are glazed and unfocused. She looks like a woman who’s been thoroughly kissed.
There are voices in the hallway. The guards are talking to someone.
I still have time. A few more minutes.
I lower my mouth to her throat. Her skin is soft and warm, her pulse hammering beneath my lips. I trail kisses down to her collarbone, then lower until I reach the curve of her breast. She’s trembling beneath me, small shivers that run through her body. When I cup her breast in my palm, her hands fist into the sheet above her head. I run my thumb across the peak, and she gasps—a sharp intake of breath that seems to surprise her.
I go still.
I’ve touched women before. More than I can count. Their bodies responded because I knew how to make them respond. I know every technique, every trick, every way to draw sounds from a woman’s throat.
But this is different.
She doesn’twantto respond. Shame and confusion covers her face, mixed with a look I recognize. A desperate wish to feel nothing. But her nipple hardens under my touch, and her back arches, pressing her breast more firmly into my palm.
Her body isn’t listening to her mind.
Neither is mine.
My lips close around her nipple, and I suck it gently into my mouth.
The sound she makes.
The moan comes from deep inside her. Her hands fly up from the sheets to grab my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. Her back bows off the bed.
And I feel it. Low in my gut. A twist of heat I wasn’t expecting. My fingers tighten on her breast. Harder than necessary. Hard enough to bruise. I force them to loosen.
This is performance. This is survival. I’ve done this a thousand times before.I repeat it over and over in my head.
My tongue circles her nipple, teeth grazing over the sensitive peak. She writhes beneath me, hips shifting restlessly against the mattress. Small sounds keep escaping her throat. Whispers, moans, and broken gasps she can’t seem to control.
My fingers curve over her other breast, rolling the nipple between them, pinching hard enough to draw a cry from her, while my mouth continues to tease the other. She arches into me again, nails raking down my back.
The pain cuts through the haze I’m trying hard to ignore, and grounds me.
Survival. Performance.
But her hands are pulling me closer, and her thighs have parted, cradling my hips. Her body is moving in a rhythm she probably doesn’t even understand, seeking friction and release. She’s feeling every sensation for the first time, and her body is singing with a need she’s never felt before.
I hate that I notice. Hate the answering heat building in my body, and the way my blood is responding to her. Three hundred years of being used by human females, and not oncedid any of them make me react like this. I performed for their pleasure, gave them what they wanted, but never once did I allow myself to enjoy it.
I suck harder on her nipple, and she cries out.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “When they open that door, you need to look and sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I hate you.” Her voice is ragged. “I hate you for this.”
