fingers thoughtfully over its hilt. The Devil’s Mark on her own shoulder throbbed and swelled in encouragement.
“Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?” she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.
His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. “You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving—or inflicting—pain on my lovers.”
The rumbling sound of those last syllables— my lovers —sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.
And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed. I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.
“Very well,” she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.
The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.
Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, thebright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. “Taste,” she said, bringing it to his mouth.
He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.
“You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me,” she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. “Just taste. Sip.”
He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.
Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.
Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster— “ Narcise! ” he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.
“Not quite yet,” she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.
He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic mélange of sensation.
Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again,
“Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?” she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.
His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. “You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving—or inflicting—pain on my lovers.”
The rumbling sound of those last syllables— my lovers —sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.
And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed. I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.
“Very well,” she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.
The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.
Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, thebright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. “Taste,” she said, bringing it to his mouth.
He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.
“You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me,” she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. “Just taste. Sip.”
He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.
Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.
Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster— “ Narcise! ” he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.
“Not quite yet,” she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.
He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic mélange of sensation.
Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again,
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