Page 25

Everything in me is shivering, molten, desperate, and humiliated by the rush of heat between my thighs. I want to smack his hand away, but I can’t move. That urge only grows worse when his hand moves lower, escaping beneath the hem of my gown, and I feel the points of his fangs grazing my skin.

Fear consumes me, except . . . It’s not true fear. It’s like there’s a tether inside me, and the more he touches me, it pulls tighter and tighter, urging me closer. His hand slides higher on my thigh, fingers skimming over bare skin, and I could literally die of embarrassment at the sound I make. It’s not even a whimper, more like a moaned gasp.

“Have you ever been touched before?”

I don’t answer. If I open my mouth, I’m afraid nothing good will come out.

He laughs softly against my neck, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Vampires are all about scent, blood, and instincts, but this is different. He’s not just hungry; he’s toying with me.

His hand keeps moving, now tracing the line of my underwear. My knees shake, threatening to give out from under me.

“I guess I’ll have to fix that,” he says, right into my ear. “You’ll like it if you stop fighting.”

I want to protest that I’m not fighting, that I never had a choice, but all that comes out is a whimper as his thumb brushes my clit through the fabric of my underwear.

“You smell so sweet,” he groans, pressing against the bundle of nerves. My body flinches away from the contact, but he snakes one arm around my waist, holding me to him as his fingers move.

“Open your legs for me.” My body answers the command when his hand nudges my thighs apart.

This can’t be desire.

My body is just reacting because I’m afraid, because he’s a vampire, because something in him knows how to pull responses from me, whether or not I want them.

Arlo’s face flashes through my mind again. His quiet smiles and his lingering eyes. The way he always stops himself. Protects me. The scars he wears for wanting me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to hold onto that image so I can forget my surroundings.

“There you go,” he murmurs, fangs brushing my throat. “Perfect. Just like that.”

His fingers slip under the edge of my underwear, skin on skin. The sensation is so intense I can’t process it. It’s not bad. It’s just . . . more. My mind keeps flipping between panic and mortification, and then something wicked and much, much worse as I feel the moisture coating his fingertips.

He’s touching me like he’s got all the time in the world. Two fingers, tracing, pressing, circling. It’s almost torture. My hips jolt, and he chuckles.

I want him to stop, but I don’t want him to stop, and I hate it.

“Never been touched either,” he says, like he’s confirming it for himself. “That’s what I thought. No one’s fucked this sweet pussy have they?”

His vulgar words should disgust me, but that only adds more heat to the fire growing. His grip traps me, but it’s the way he holds my body that’s so baffling. He’s careful, like he actually cares if I fall apart.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs.

I shake my head, tears burning my eyes.

“Don’t lie. I can feel every part of you. You’re soaked for me, little mortal.”

There’s a sharp scrape of fangs on my neck, and I freeze, reflexive fear slamming through every nerve. His hand tightens on my waist, and his mouth eases back, lips brushing my skin instead of biting.

“Relax,” he says. “It’ll be over soon.”

Except his other hand is still between my legs, still moving, and my body is a traitor. Pressure is building, every nerve wound tight, desperate and aching, like I’m going to break apart, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

“That’s it,” he encourages, working me over with skilled fingers. “It will only make your death so much sweeter,” he groans, but the meaning of his words are lost when he forces two fingers inside me, his thumb rubbing my clit.

Everything goes white for a second. I gasp, wild and desperate, and push on his chest when he crushes me against him, driving his fingers deeper.

I’m trying not to squirm, but my hips keep jerking, chasing his fingers, my body melting into him even when my brain says no.

He works his fingers deeper, curling just slightly, and I’m hanging onto reality by a thread.