Page 146 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

She moans—a soft sound—and shudders as I work her faster. She is enjoying my touch.

A fierce, possessive satisfaction swells in my chest, even as regret coils beneath it. This is not how I imagined touching her. It is not slow. Or gentle. Or freely given.

But I will make it feel good for her. Even if I am commandeering every sensation. Robbing her of control over her own body. Her own orgasm. And I would be lying if I said she does not feel every bit as good as I imagined—only infinitely better.

Hot.

Tight.

Wet.

Those soft pink lips, glossy and swollen, clinging to my fingers every time I try to pull free. Even spent, it would be a dream to sink into her. I lean over her more, bracing a hand above her shoulder.

My belt remains loose around my waist, but I have tucked myself away. I could so easily lose control. Forget why I should not settle my weight over her and join our bodies completely.

I slide an arm beneath her thigh and lift her leg over my shoulder as I lean closer.

She freezes, eyes widening.

My face is suddenly inches from hers. Close enough that her breath touches my mouth. I could kiss her. I want to. The thought strikes with such force that I become perfectly still.

This is not lust, but passion.

At first, the kiss is merely another temptation to toy with. Then the seconds drag on, and my resolve begins to erode. Vampires take wolves to their beds often enough. Quietly. Brutally. Not always without affection. My father’s kingdom tolerates appetites, provided they remain merely appetites.

Never tenderness.

Never love.

That is forbidden.

Vampires are the superior race. To love a wolf is treason against blood, throne and species. It is one of the few crimes for which a vampire may be executed.

If I kissed Kira now, I would invite that same fate. Because I would not seek to taunt her, nor to conquer her mouth.

Kissing her would mean something.

I do not know what, precisely. Only that I want to taste her lips without blood or threats between us. I want to put aside everything and imagine a kinder world in which I am not a prince, and she is not my captive.

A world in which there is only this beautiful, brilliant, infuriating woman and me.

Even powerless, she retains her dignity—more than I can say for myself, slinking through my father’s halls to bend the knee.

With Kira, I am enraptured.

My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips part. The darker rouge has been smeared away, leaving them lush and rosy, swollen from taking me. My fangs ache at the sight of them, and I find myself leaning in.

For one impossible second, my lips hover near hers, and she does not look away. Neither do I. Just a brush of her lips would undo me. But it is a line I cannot cross. Instead, I press my forehead against her temple for a long moment. Then, slowly, I begin moving again, pumping my fingers in and out, stroking her with my palm until my hand is slick with her.

Kira shudders.

“You’re close,” I observe.

She only digs her nails into my shoulders, and it is answer enough.

I move my hand with greater certainty, stretching her open, driving into her in deep, ruthless strokes.

I lean more heavily against the chair, and it shifts beneath her, scraping across the floor.