“No,” agreed Corabeth. “But I think I would prefer to watch this time.”
Rooke’s head whipped to Corabeth. It was something they hadn’t shared yet, not entirely. The kill. The moment life left a man’s eyes. But now, Corabeth wanted it.
She gave him an encouraging nod.
One moment, Rooke was beside her; the next, he was on top of Turner. The man’s attempts to fight back were futile as strong hands forced him onto his back. But now, Turner refused to scream. He didn’t scream when Rooke tore open his shirt, when he sank his fangs into the skin of his neck, or when he tore away a chunk of his flesh.
Corabeth watched, mesmerized, as crimson spurted from the open wound onto the white snow. Rooke spat the flesh out and lowered himself to the wound once more to drink up the lifeblood with a satisfied groan.
Such viciousness. Such ferociousness. Such danger.
And it was all hers to command.
Rooke pushed himself up, head thrown back, eyes closed in satisfaction, mouth so full of blood it ran down his chin and neck in rivulets. A low groan came from deep inside of him, so close to the sounds he had made while buried between Corabeth’s thighs. She felt a gentle throb come to life there now.
The stain of crimson around Turner’s head kept growing as he was reduced to nothing but a lethargic body.
“Rooke,” Corabeth whispered, taking a careful step closer to them.
Rooke’s feral eyes landed on Corabeth, a familiar hunger in his gaze. Then something else flared into life in them. Something that was reflected in Corabeth’s own gaze.
Rooke was upon her in a single blink of an eye. When his tongue invaded her mouth, the still-warm blood surged in and flowed down their faces, painting them both in crimson. Metallic filled her mouth.
Rooke’s hands grabbed at her feverishly, pressing their bodies together, pulling at the fabric on Corabeth’s chest. This time, he ripped only a few buttons when he exposed Corabeth’s breasts and brought his bloodied mouth to her pebbled nipples.
To anyone else, it would have seemed as if Rooke was feasting on another victim. But it was Corabeth who guided Rooke’s movements. It was Corabeth who pushed him to the ground, who straddled him and sank onto him.
Corabeth’s breathing hitched as she felt him deep inside of her, hard and ready. As ready as she was for him. Their desire for each other burned equally bright.
Rooke’s fingers tightened on her hips as she started to move against him, fast and frantic. There wasn’t anything gentle or tender about their union this time. It was all carnal and untamed.
Turner lay next to them, forgotten and twitching.
Rooke gripped Corabeth’s waist, helping her through every movement, his hips thrusting upwards to meet her strokes, a feral grin on his blood-stained face. He sat up then, capturing her mouth in a kiss that traveled down to her jaw, neck, chest, leaving smears of blood in its wake.
The change of angle enabled Rooke to reach new depths inside Corabeth, and the sounds she made were nearly inhuman. Again and again, she ground herself against him, climbing towards new heights of pleasure. Their hands grabbed at each other, desperately grasping at skin and fabric as if they couldn’ttouch each other fast enough. Their only focus was this primal urgency thrumming between them.
Corabeth could feel how close Rooke was now. How impossibly hard and large he had grown inside of her. All she wanted was to reduce this predator into a whimpering mess below her. She angled back, sliding herself up and down on him, faster and faster, finding her own pleasure along the way.
Rooke roared his release into the night, throwing his head back, his body shuddering under her. She felt his warmth spill out of her, and in a few thrusts, she followed him. Corabeth threw her arms around Rooke’s shoulders, holding on to him as waves after waves of pleasure washed over her, drowning her entirely.
Foreheads pressed against each other, they stayed like that, still connected, until their breathing returned to normal. Rooke was so warm against Corabeth, she didn’t even feel the chill of winter.
It was only once Corabeth turned her gaze from Rooke to the ground on their left did she realize that Turner had died, his lifeless eyes staring through them.
Twenty-five
Corabeth
Corabeth stood naked in front of the mirror and tried to recognize her own face beneath the dried blood. Even her eyes seemed strangely dark as she stared back at herself. Somewhere in the softly lit bathroom behind her, Rooke was filling the large copper bath with steaming water. The soft gurgle of water filled the room, the sweet scents of bath oils wafted in the air, and Corabeth was bloody from her cheeks to her breasts.
“The bath is ready,” Rooke said from behind her. When she turned to look at his equally naked form, her eyes caught on the crimson streaked across him—a reflection of herself, in more ways than one.
Rooke reached out a hand. Corabeth took it, stepped into the bath, and lowered herself into the water that was hot enough to make her feel as if fire had erupted all across her chilled skin. Then Rooke climbed in himself and sat across from her.
With a cupped hand, he began gently pouring water over Corabeth’s shoulders, chest, and cheeks. The water that ran off her was stained crimson and created a cloud of pink around her.
When Rooke was finished with Corabeth, he turned his attention to himself, washing off the traces of their crime. By the time he was finished, the bathwater around them had turned opaque.
