Chapter 31
Oh, God, why did I say that? It was too late to take it back—but I wasn’t about to take the coward’s way out and tell him I’d made a mistake.
Even if that’s exactly what it felt like.
He didn’t wait long to take me up on it, either. Despite having given him permission, I trembled uncontrollably as he settled those cold, effortlessly strong fingers under my jaw to tilt my head back. Braced to feel pain, I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch as he bent to feed, nor to see that beastly hunger that wanted to swallow me whole form in his eyes.
Thus I was not prepared for it when he kissed me instead.
Shocked, I jerked back at the brush of his lips against my own, lids flying open. He smiled slightly, that amused look at odds with the sure, proprietary way he slid his arms around me and drew me against him once more. The chills that wracked me weren’t entirely from his cool body temperature, but I couldn’t seem to stop the stupid trembling.
“You are terribly flighty, Ms. Waynest. Tell me, do you flee from any man who touches you, or is this something special reserved for me? Either way, I’ll delight in breaking you of the habit.”
I glared at him, putting my hands against his chest in a clear message—
stop.
“I—I just ... I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
“I do so love watching you squirm,” he murmured, leaning in to press another quick, playful kiss against my cheek that made me stiffen, then redden. My skin felt positively afire as his dark eyes examined me, calculating, measuring my frightened reactions against some unknown scale.
“That,” I said, voice shaking, “that is what I can’t stand about you.”
“Hmm?” His response made me think he was only half listening. He seemed more interested in looking me over, searching for who knows what.
“When you act like a monster,” I whispered, instantly wishing—again—that I could take it back.
That was sufficient to drag his attention off my body long enough for him to meet my eyes. There was a touch of red deep down in his irises, only a hint, but it soon died away. A sly smile curved his lips as I straightened and pointedly stared him down. Too bad he was more pleased than intimidated. I got another glimpse of those fangs I hated so much as he spoke in a slow, amused drawl.
“Ah. I see, now,” he said. He leaned in, just a little, and I couldn’t help but jerk back and press a hand to my throat. “Tell me, Ms. Waynest, did you think that I would lunge upon and ravage you like you were some helpless maiden in a fairytale?”
My embarrassed flush was answer enough. He had the sheer gall to laugh at me.
“Oh, you
are
precious. I see I have my work cut out for me.”
Despite my indignation, my attempt to pull away from him was halted too easily by his fingers twining with my own, drawing me out of my protective crouch by the headboard.
He urged me to lay back and, in spite of my misgivings (and irritation at his teasing), I did so without protest. Now wasn’t the time for that.
Once I was prone, his fingers stroked my bare skin, leaving behind an electric tingle and desire for more that somehow managed to frighten me more than his fangs. He didn’t seem to care about the new bumps and contusions and scars, other than to take care not to put much pressure on any of the myriad bruises scattered over my frame.
Doubts and worries about the consequences of my actions assailed me, and I had to bite my lip to keep from telling him to stop, to wait, that I wasn’t ready. That I’d never be ready. My fingers knotted in the silken sheets, my body practically vibrating with the involuntary shudders that threaded through me as I fought to remain still under his touch.
“Be at ease, my little hunter. I won’t harm you.”
Every instinct within me screamed to run, to hide, to fight and claw my way free if necessary. Instead of giving in to those urges, I said nothing and closed my eyes, doing my very best to think of Royce as anything other than a monster who would gorge himself on the blood in my veins once he deemed me ready for his bite.
He didn’t speak again for some time; instead he knelt at my side as he carefully traced the lines of my body, memorizing them with his hands. I’d never been so aware of someone’s touch before. Having my eyes closed had nothing to do with it. Those cold, powerful fingers could have easily crushed my bones into powder, but instead stroked me with the same delicacy as that with which one might handle a small, frightened animal. Barely brushing my skin, but leaving no doubt as to the enormity of strength behind that touch.
To both my consternation and relief, he did not lay a hand on my breasts or cop a feel between my thighs. His interest lay in other places, like the line of my jaw, the arch of my ribs, and even that horribly ticklish spot under my knees. He hesitated whenever I flinched—usually when he touched a scar, particularly those on my stomach—but would soon retrace his steps, repeating the motion until the tendon-creaking tension in my muscles relaxed.
It took quite some time for me to stop shaking and lose the immediate heat of embarrassment. My concentration gradually eased away from holding myself deathly still to focusing on what he was doing, along with a slowly growing sense of curiosity as to where he might touch next. Little by little, the gut-wrenching anxiety eased away, soothed by the gentle brush of his fingers.
Those hands came to know every scar and imperfection, every place on my body that responded without any thought on my part, whether it be from desire or shame. His touch was not judgmental, only probing, searching, learning where to caress to make me move with instead of against him.
At last he lingered on one of my arms, noting the way I shivered—not from fear, not at all—as he traced the fine lace of veins visible through my skin. He gathered up my right hand in both his own and, though I still refused to open my eyes to watch, pressed chill lips to my fingertips as he kissed each digit in turn.
Though he hadn’t quite urged me to do it, I laid my hand against his cheek as he bent over me, his own hand settling lightly on my stomach. He stilled, remaining motionless as I tentatively did as he had, memorizing the strong planes of his jaw by touch alone. As I learned the slope of his brow, the softness of his hair, the butterfly kiss of his lashes against my palm, he waited with infinite patience for my hesitance to fade before moving again.
I didn’t tremble quite so badly when he eased himself on top of me this time. I was still too cowardly to open my eyes, even as that damned tie tack scraped between my ribs again. He kept one hand pressed over mine at his cheek so I would not pull away as he switched to using his lips and tongue to taste and lightly nip at all of the places he had learned elicited a response.
Much to my everlasting shame, I
did
respond. Unwanted heat settled under my skin and a sheen of sweat broke out upon my brow, my body arching up unbidden to mold itself to his. Tiny jerks at his gentle ministrations became more, shifting my hand from his cheek so I could tangle my fingers in his hair when he sampled the fine hollow at my collarbone.
It was like he’d flipped a switch somewhere deep inside my body. The light scrape of fangs on my skin ... right ...
there ...
sent a shocking jolt of pure, toe-curling pleasure down my spine. A sudden, fierce flame of desire lashed through me, and I didn’t care that I was baring my throat to a vampire who could kill me with little effort, and that I’d be helpless to stop him if he tried. All I knew in that moment was that I wanted more.
He took my unspoken invitation to heart, his attention shifting to my jugular where he settled into a series of kisses that seared me with their chill. I made an impatient sound, though I wasn’t quite sure why I was now more frustrated than frightened at his pace. Why couldn’t he get it over with, end this slow torture he was putting me through? A low growl escaped me, reminiscent of the werewolf I’d almost become, as I dragged my nails down his back, drawing him closer.
The low vibration of his laughter against my skin only further inflamed me. I wanted to regain some control over this situation. He wasn’t going to be the only one here who was unaffected by desire, damn it. I would make him lose his cool, if only so he would put a stop to these games. I hooked one leg around his hips, the fingers of both hands now curled in his hair, drawing him to my throat.
My urges meant nothing to him.
He pulled away.
Pulled away.
My astonishment was all that saved me from immediately exploding into the fury of humiliation or rejection. My eyes flew open, a tiny sound of dismay escaping me as I tilted my head to watch him.
Instead of sinking his fangs into me, he continued his oral exploration of my sensitive spots, his tongue flickering over and putting just the right amount of pressure on the places that heated my skin and set my heart racing. That, added to the light and somehow pleasantly deliberate brush of his fingers over the scar tissue beneath my ribcage, tracing the patterns on my skin that usually brought me so much shame, was driving me to the edge of madness.
It really wasn’t fair that he should be so in control when I was turning into a basket case. Mostly I was angry at myself for falling apart while he was so clearly unmoved by any of this in any way that I could see.
“What are you doing?” I cried the words. Maybe sobbed is a better way of putting it.
He glanced up, a devilish grin curving his lips at my alarm. “Ensuring you will never find solace in the arms of another. That you will burn for me, little hunter, and only me. I will know you—all of you—and brand you in a way that no contract or bond of blood could ever substitute.”
I gaped at him. His grin widened—a purely male expression, one mirrored in the heat simmering deep in his hooded eyes. A look of possession.
“Not to worry, Ms. Waynest. You’ll still be you when I have finished.”
He didn’t bother waiting for my response, though I was a bit too busy spluttering and squirming for him to follow the same pattern he’d been a moment ago. That put a slightly different spin on this than I’d assumed. A part of me was horrified at his words, but a far larger portion was reveling in the glory of being so thoroughly explored, even knowing it meant he would conquer my mind and body in the end.
Though I was already hot, burning for more of his touch, he stoked the flame higher by busying himself with removing my bra and taking to a light suckling on one of my nipples, his hand ministering to the other. They tightened instantly under the chill—or maybe from the pleasure. I couldn’t be sure, and was too confused by his easy acceptance of my ravaged skin and uneasy reactions to know what to expect or how to respond. At that point, all I could manage, aside from quiet pleas or involuntarily arching into his touch, was a dim thought to pray that I’d be too lost in this pleasure to feel it when he finally bit me.
His fangs occasionally raked over my skin but never pierced and, oddly, never frightened me quite as I expected them to. Though I arched against him, pleaded both with words and actions for him to hurry up and claim me, and even bit his shoulder at one point to show my frustration, he never gave in to my wants. Aside from letting me urge him on with light touches to his head or shoulders, he wouldn’t allow me to reach lower, and balked at every attempt I made to shift our positions.
I knew he was aroused—now that he was pressed closer, I could feel the stiff length of him through the silken material rubbing against my thigh—but I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t let me touch him. When I got too persistent, he moved with all the sinuous grace of a snake to elude my grasping hands, distracting me with a sharp nip or by briefly pinning my wrist to keep me from reaching for his belt. The message was clear: it was his turn and, until he was done, I wasn’t allowed to reciprocate what he was doing.
I voiced a wordless cry when he fitted his palm over my sex, the sudden pressure over my soaked panties urging me into bucking impatiently against his deft fingers. He toyed with me, shifting to take my other nipple into his mouth as his fingers teased me with a ghost of the friction I so desired. It wasn’t enough to push me over, only enough to drive me crazy, wild, thrusting against him with a reckless abandon I’d never known with Chaz or any other lover.
No one else I’d ever shared a bed with had had this kind of patience or self-control, and it was blowing my mind that he was pushing me well past the point of readiness without taking his own pleasure. Not that I really minded now. Sort of. Playing the role of patient, passive bed partner was new to me, and I wasn’t adjusting too well.
Eventually, he took pity on me, sliding his way down my body as he agonizingly slowly drew my panties off. He didn’t let me help, one hand pressing against my stomach to hold me down as I moved to rise with him. That implacable hold was driving me crazy. All I could do was grip the sheets and writhe in the hopes of finding some form—any form—of release.
Once the flimsy scrap of material was discarded, I was left naked under his hungry gaze. A gasp was torn from my throat as he settled between my legs, his fangs scraping in harsh counterpoint to the brush of silken strands of hair against my inner thighs.
“Last chance to turn back, little hunter,” he said, eyeing me as I so lewdly sprawled for him. “Do you really want this?”