It was undoubtedly the most erotic thing I’d ever seen. At least until he let them out with a wet sound and groaned. “I told you. Your taste is without parallel,” he groaned.
Fuck. That was hot.
He set his hand between us again, and this time I didn’t feel shame at the way I coated his fingers. He stroked against my entrance, my body too tight to open for him the way I wanted.
He pulled his hand away again, this time lifting his fingers to my lips. “Taste. Taste how much you want me.”
I obeyed, dipping my head forward, holding his gaze the same way he’d held mine. The taste was salty, feminine, and utterly salacious. He shuddered against me, his cock jolting against the inside of my thigh.
“That’s it. That’s my wicked girl,” he praised, slowly withdrawing his fingers.
He stroked and teased expertly, one long finger gently pressing at my entrance while his thumb brushed over my clit. I whimpered against him, my body easing. “I want to feel you inside me.” Just the little taste had me aching for more.
“You’re not ready,” he said. It could’ve sounded like a dismissal, but there was no missing the need in his voice. “I won’t hurt you.”
I didn’t care about ready, though I groaned as he shallowly pumped the finger in. A delicious stretch, as my body adjusted, but so unlike any of the other sensations. I hadn’t even known this was an option. But I was undeniably tight. And this was just his finger. I wanted to feel all of him, but there was no denying the tremor of trepidation that undercut the lust coursing through me.
He pushed a bit deeper, scanning my face. “Okay?”
“It’s good. Different.” My voice cracked as it came out.
“Have you done this before?” Though his movements were controlled, there was no missing the wild look in his eye.
“I’ve never been with another.”
There was a growl in his chest that reverberated through my body. I wasn’t sure if it was approval or jealousy that I’d evenmentioned someone else in his arms. “To yourself, I mean. At night… perhaps when you’re thinking of me.” The last part he said with a slight smirk that in any other moment would’ve embarrassed me, but now it just turned me on more.
I shook my head. Greymere hadn’t been a safe place to explore adolescence, and I hadn’t particularly felt any urge to. “I’ve explored my body.” Since coming to Damerel. “But not like this.”
He kept pumping in me, stroking. “And do you think of me when you touch?”
“I do.”
He leaned forward, tugging my earlobe lightly with his teeth. The sensation distracted me from just how tight his finger felt inside me.
Fearless for the first time in my life, I continued. “I imagine you coming to me in the night. I imagine you slipping in, jolting me awake, and you press a finger to your lips. Daring me to be quiet while you slide my nightgown off and replace the fabric with your touch. Sometimes with your fangs.” My breath hitched. “Or I imagine you on your knees before me. Sometimes we’re in front of others. Your hands stroking my thighs, your head buried against me.”
I wondered if I might be going too far with that last one. If someone as powerful as him would be insulted to be used like that.
I really should have known better.
“Fuck,” he groaned against my ear. “Good. Because, my wicked girl, I think about you all the time.”
“What do you think about?” I asked as he pressed another finger inside me. It was so full now, so tight.
“I imagine making you mine.” The word was raw, possessive. “Taking you to my bed and never letting you out. I fantasize about making you beg, then making you come, then making youbeg to stop coming because you think you can’t take any more, but I know you can.”
He punctuated each of the last words with a thrust of his fingers. I moaned. I pictured it so clearly as he said it. He threaded his other hand through my hair. I nuzzled his neck as he pushed deeper, whimpering with need.
“Bite me,” he ordered. “Not because you need to feed, but because you want to feel my blood inside you.”
I didn’t hesitate. I threaded my fingers through his hair and tugged his neck to the side. It felt so right to set a hot breath over his skin, to see the muscles of his neck strain, and to slam my teeth into his throat. The warm, copper tang coated my mouth in an instant, heated pleasure spreading through my body.
But that wasn’t what changed everything.
Every other time I’d buried my fangs in Raphael’s neck, he’d kept his hands still. Restrained. His grip splintered the wood of the carriage; his knuckles turned white against the stone countertop.
He’d been holding back.
