Page 128 of Sinister

His tongue presses deeper, finding that sweet, secret place, and then he sucks.

I moan loudly.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his lips wet against my flesh. He kisses me again, everywhere, as if worshipping my body. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You feel how only I can make you feel.”

I cling to his hair, trying not to lose myself completely, but every flick of his tongue sends me spiraling. I rise, then fall, crashing into release so hard I gasp for air, knowing in my bones that no one else—not even myself—could ever do this to me.

It’s not just the act. It’s him. His presence. His warmth. The way my body responds to him.

He chuckles again. “So sweet,” he says. “You’re so damn sweet, Petra. Like nothing I ever dreamed before.”

My body trembles in the aftermath. Still tangled in the sheets, I feel the aftershocks coursing through me—and yet he doesn’t stop. He continues kissing me, giving me everything, until I come undone all over again.

It’s startling. And yet . . . I want more.

The more he touches me, the more I crave him. It’s as if he knows my body better than I do.

When he finally slows, he kisses a trail up my stomach, sucking the skin just below my navel and leaving a tender red mark in its place. Then he rises over me, looking down with eyes that seem to glow.

“My darling girl,” he whispers. “You feel it?”

He takes my hand and places it against the front of his trousers.

“Do you feel what you do to me? What only you have ever done to me?”

I make a low sound, unsure of how to respond.

He doesn’t wait.

Instead, he leans down and kisses me. Soft, deep, and unrelenting. I’m briefly scandalized by the taste of myself on his tongue, but the heat of it only stokes my anticipation.

What will he do next?

I shouldn’t have dared to wonder.

With a final kiss to my lips, he moves down again. This time to my chest. And just above my right breast, he sinks his teeth into me.

Hard.

I gasp, body arching in shock.

There’s a flash of pain—but beneath it, something deeper. Something darker. Something that scares me more than the blood or the bite: my own feelings.

He bites down hard enough to break skin. When he lifts his head, I see the evidence—drops of red staining his teeth, trailing down his chin.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice dazed.

“What do you think, Petra?” he says, smiling. “I’m claiming you. You’re it for me. Don’t you know that? This—” he gestures to the wound, to the blood, to us— “this will make sure we’re together. In this life, the next . . . and beyond.”

I don’t understand what he means. Not really. But I’m too far gone to question it.

He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the hard lines of his chest. Then he pulls a knife from his pocket. The silver gleams briefly before he presses the tip just above his right breast—right where he bit me. With one precise movement, he slices. The cut is clean. The blood surfaces immediately.

I frown, confused, but not repulsed.

When he pulls me closer, his hand firm against the back of my neck, guiding my mouth to his wound, I don’t resist. I don’t even flinch. I press my lips to the cut. I lap at his blood—greedily, instinctively—like he did mine.

And then something strange happens.