Pushing inside slowly, feeling her arch up against his chest, watching her eyes roll back, he wished they had never met. As good as this was, he didn’t need a weakness like her anywhere near his life. But like a wound filled with salt, she was permanently in his skin.
At least she was going to stay here with him and be safe.
That was his one solace.
Moving slowly, carefully, he eased himself in and out of her slick hold, his cock getting stroked on all sides. He had to grit his teeth and lock his lower back to keep up the steady, even pace—he wanted to go faster and faster, but that was not an option.
And yes, he knew exactly what she was after: She was using him as an eraser, and he was more than willing to fit the bill.
Anything for her—
Marisol repositioned her herself, wrapping her legs around him, angling herself so that he went even deeper. One stroke later and she was holding on hard to his shoulders. It was getting close for her, so close.
“I have you,” he said into her hair. “Let yourself go and I shall catch you.”
Her head threw back and her nails dug in and her body tightened, and he froze, feeling the tugs on his arousal, the subtle pulls that cranked him up.
Turning his head into her neck, he meant only to get closer, feel more of her, be further responsive to her needs.
But she moved unexpectedly, arching her body, shifting her position—and her neck pushed into his mouth … his fangs.
The scratch was minor. His taste of her was anything but.
Before he could stop himself, he scored her more deeply.
His Marisol moaned and swept her hands down to his hips, pulling at him as if she wanted him to start moving again.
“I’m on the pill,” she said from a vast, vast distance.
His clogged mind didn’t know what that meant, but the sound of her voice was enough to snap him back to reality. Lapping at the wound he’d made, he both closed it and took more of her blood into him—although it was such a small amount compared to what he wanted.
“Keep going,” she said. “Please … don’t stop—”
Assail was tempted to take that the wrong way and bite her properly, take from her completely. But he would not do that without her permission. Rape could happen in many different ways—and a violation was a violation, especially when only one side got pleasure from it.
He would, however, finish the sex.
Hitching a more complete hold on her, he drove in and relented, drove in and relented, swinging his hips.
At the last moment, he pulled out and came all over her lower belly, the jerking spasms kicking out his scent on her skin.
As much as he wanted more of this—and he intended to have her again, right now—he would not complete the act within her until she knew the full truth about him. Only then would she be able to honestly decide whether or not she wanted him as a lover.
With his lips at her ear, he said, “More, yes…”
The rippling moan she let out was the perfect reply. And before it had even faded, before her nails once again sank into his flanks and her legs squeezed his lower body closer to her, he began to move again, the sex tempered by his respect for her, and yet all the more vivid for the restraint.
He had never been with a woman or a female like this before.
After years of having had sex, he felt as though he was finally with someone for the first time.
THIRTY-FOUR
Kneeling before the bedding platform, Wrath kept time between his beloved’s breaths, measuring her inhalations as they pushed weakly against the arm he had stretched over her waist. Longer and longer between the draws, slower and slower the exhales.
And meanwhile his own heart continued to beat, and his own lungs did their duty, and his body kept on.
It seemed so cruel—and he would have traded her his health in a moment. He would have given her anything of his just to keep her with him—and as that was not possible, he put his palm on the hilt of his jeweled dagger and brought it between them.
Focusing on her parted lips, he angled the blade so that it was pointed at the center of his chest. The supports of the platform were constructed out of stout oak panels, and they happened to be at just the right height for what he required: Bracing the base of the weapon’s handle on the edge of the wood, he kept the dagger upright in his grip and leaned in, measuring the distance he had to close.
Putting his sternum to the tip of the blade, he pushed in enough to feel the pinch.
Satisfied with the angle, he turned the knife around and took the point to the wood itself, digging a circle out of the fibers, creating a lock for the base. As he chipped away, it seemed disrespectful to waste the last of his Anha’s breaths on such efforts—he should be paying mind unto her, and her alone.