Page 70 of The Witch They Crave

"I've been dying to know what you feel like," he says against my mouth, between kisses, and for once doesn't measure the words. "To taste you. To have my way with you. You have no idea how long I've wanted to ruin you."

Heat floods through me, low and immediate, my whole body tightening around the promise in his voice. "Then… don’t hold back anymore," I breathe. "Ruin me."

He pulls back just enough to look at me—eyes gone fully dark, that flat careful voice melted off him entirely—and whatever he sees in my face is the last of it.

He strips me out of the cami, sleep shorts, and panties in a few seconds and then I'm bare under him. He stops to look, and the look alone lights me up—jaw tight, eyes black, taking me in like I'm something he's waited centuries to be allowed.

"I have wanted to look at you like this," he says, low, "since the day they handed me your file."

Then his mouth is on me. My throat, the curve of my breast, and when his lips close over my nipple I gasp and arch off the bed. He works me with his tongue, unhurried, thorough, one cold hand rolling the other nipple until I'm squirming, and every measured, deliberate touch is filthier than if he'd rushed.

This is the man who does everything with precision. He is being precise about taking me apart.

I get my hands between us and shove his shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders, desperate to feel him. He’s lean and cold and marked here and there with tattoos and old scars gone silver with age. I press my mouth to the scar over the heart that doesn't beat and he makes a sound like I've unmade him, and then his hands are on my hips and he rolls us.

Suddenly I'm on top, straddling him, and the way our bodies fit together drags a gasp out of both of us—because he's hard beneath me, straining against the thin fabric of his sleep pants, right where I'm open and aching. His hands settle on my hips, not pushing, just holding, letting me feel it.

"Move," he says, rough. "However you want. Take what you need from me."

I roll my hips and the friction is obscene, his length dragging against me through the fabric, and I do it again, chasing it, grinding down against him until we're both breathing hard and his fingers have gone tight on my hips. His head drops back against the pillow, throat working, all his composure coming apart because I'm using his body to get myself off and he's letting me, watching me, wrecked by it.

"That's it," he breathes. "God, look at you."

But I want more of him. I want to know what I do to him, want proof of it. I slide down his body, hook my fingers in the waist of his sleep pants, and drag them down, and he lets me—goes very still, jaw clenched, as I free him and wrap my hand around the cold hard length of him.

Then I take him in my mouth.

"Fuck." His head drops back, hand fisting in the sheets, the word torn out of him—and hearing that from Aamon, the man who never so much as raises his voice, is its own reward. "Your mouth. I've thought about your mouth."

I hum around him and he groans, hips flexing up, chasing it. Liquid heat spreads through me.

The sound he makes is nothing like the composed professor, nothing like the man who bows ten degrees—it's raw and stunned and helpless, and it goes straight to the ache between my thighs. I work him with my mouth and my hand, learning him, learning what makes his hips twitch and his breath break, and his fingers thread into my hair, not guiding, just holding on like I'm the only solid thing in the room. He watches me the whole time, and I've never felt powerful in my life the way I feel it now, with hundreds of years of vampire coming undone under my mouth.

I could stay like this, learning and worshipping his body without a care in the world. With Aamon, everything fades away and I lose myself in him.

No, I don’t lose myself.

He reminds me who I was always supposed to be.

I keep sucking, licking, and teasing him until his cock is throbbing in my mouth. His knuckles go white as he grips the sheets, his thighs slightly shaking each time I take him deeper into my throat.

"Enough—" He drags me up by the shoulders before I can finish him, flips us so I'm under him again, and there's nothing measured left in his eyes. "Not like that. Not the first time I get to feel you."

Then he's moving down my body, hooking my legs over his shoulders, and he puts his mouth on on my most sensitive part.

I lose the thread of everything. His tongue drags through my folds slow and then finds the spot that makes my hips buck and stays there, relentless. He pins my thigh with one forearm when I try to squirm from how much it is. He eats like he's starving, like this is the thing he denied himself for two months and now that he's allowed he intends to ruin me with it. One finger presses into me, curling, and the delicious stretch paired with his mouth still working me tears a sound out of me I don't recognize.

"Aamon—Aamon—I can't—"

He pulls back just as I hit the edge, his finger still buried in me, and the orgasm recedes just out of reach. I make a broken sound and he looks up the length of my body, mouth wet, eyes black.

"You taste like something I'm going to be starving for the rest of my life," he says, low and filthy, and it nearly finishes me on its own. "Not yet, Calypso. I want another minute of you like this."

"Aamon."

"I know." He drags his tongue across my clit, slow, cruel, holding me right at the edge without tipping me over, watching my face while I come apart at the seams. "But I've waited months for this. Let me have it."

My hips chase his mouth, shameless, past the point of caring. "Then stop torturing me."