Blood Struck by Michelle Fox Page B

Michelangelo swoon. Then he parted my legs and his hard length pressed against my wet entrance. My hips thrust up, wanting all of him already.
    That made him smile and go all the slower, teasing me. I whimpered and reached for him, trying to pull him in, but he danced away from my grasp. He claimed me inch by tortuous inch, a pace that left my core desperate to be filled. When he finally sank all the way inside me, I groaned with satisfaction.
    “How many times do you want to come?” he asked.
    “It’s up to you.” With a finger, I caught a drop of blood from my breast and pressed it against his lips, giving myself to him completely. He sucked my finger into his mouth, fangs scraping over my knuckle.
    Releasing my finger, he said, “Come.”
    I arched, gasping as the wave rushed me, pebbling my nipples as it went. Before I’d returned to earth, while I was still swept away, he had me come again. Then again.
    It seemed as if my body’s capacity for pleasure was endless. There was no sense of fatigue or any fading of my response. I came for him every time like it was the first orgasm. The heaviness in my limbs, though, and the way they shook when I tried to move belied my fatigue, but I didn’t really feel it. I was too caught up in Kristos’ eyes, his touch and the way he filled me to the point of bursting.
    Kristos leaned down and bit my neck when he reached his own climax. Before his fangs slid through my skin as if I was made of water, he paused to whisper, “Come for me, Myra.”
    I screamed, my hands digging into his shoulders. The orgasm bucked through me fierce as a wild horse, threatening to trample me into oblivion.
    When he finished, he rolled to my side. I remained frozen in place, trembling as aftershocks zapped my system. My mind fought to maintain awareness. All I wanted to do was sink into the soft darkness of sleep, but one simple sound put me on hyper alert.
    Someone was knocking on the door. Not our bedroom door, which would not have alarmed me at all as it would have been one of Kristos’ men. No, the knocking came from the front door.
    Not only did no one know where we were, they shouldn’t be in the building let alone on our floor without being buzzed in. An adrenaline surge burned away all my lethargy and I bolted out of bed, every muscle taut, my ears straining.
    Kristos responded in kind and we both stood in tense silence willing the knock to have been a fluke. It wasn’t. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Whoever was out there knew the apartment was occupied.
    This was bullets-are-probably-about-to-fly bad.
    Kristos frowned. “Get dressed and stay here until I give the all clear.” He pulled on his pants and snagged his gun from the bedside table.
    I didn’t know anything about guns other than his was sleek and black and that I wished I had one. For once, I’d like to be the one doing the shooting. I hated feeling so defenseless.
    He left, shutting our bedroom door after him. I got dressed and then cracked the door open which gave me a clear view of the apartment’s entrance. Kristos was peering through the peephole.
    I heard a muffled voice speaking from the other side of the door. I was too far away to make out what was said, but Kristos seemed to understand it just fine. Holding the gun behind him and out of sight, he opened the front door.
    A tall man with swarthy dark features stepped into the apartment. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand. It was the man from the coffee shop. Shit. I’d been spotted.
    The man’s eyes, black as night, scanned the apartment and found me within seconds. He gave a feral smile and beckoned me forward. “Ah, there you are my tesoro. Come out where we can talk, eh?”
    His voice carried in the apartment, a baritone with an accent so thick it almost sounded like he was choking on English. I looked to Kristos for guidance and he nodded, his expression one of resignation. Whoever this man was, he was no stranger and no immediate