Page 92 of Given to the Black King

His claws hook the back of my gown.

Fabric tears from neck to waist.

Cold air rushes over my skin. His hand follows, hot and broad, flattening between my shoulder blades.

He smells the exposed line of my back. Slow. Thorough. Nose at my spine, mouth at my shoulder, breath warming every place the cold touched.

One claw turns flat and travels down my side.

I shake.

He feels it.

The point touches the outside of my thigh.

A careful sting.

One long, shallow line.

My hips push back before he finishes it.

His growl breaks against my skin.

He bites my shoulder.

His back teeth close hard enough that pain flashes white. The long points lie outside the muscle and never pierce. He holds me there, mouth locked, while one hand slides under my torn gown and cups my breast.

I cry out.

He releases the bite and licks the mark once.

Then his hand goes between my thighs.

He finds me wet through my drawers.

The old voice comes against my ear.

“All this from running.”

I cannot find a clever answer.

“Yes.”

His fingers press through the cloth, slow once, then hard.

My knees buckle against the fountain.

He keeps me up with one hand.

“Again,” I breathe.

He does not.

Instead he turns me to face him.

His mouth is wet. Both fangs are bare. His shoulder still bears the crescent of my nails from our last night together.

He grips the torn back of my gown and pulls me close.