Page 116 of To Bleed a Crystal Bloom
Confused, I turn to Rhordyn.
“This isn’t Puddles ...”
“No, it’s not.”
He holds my stare, a small lock of hair grazing his forehead.
“Where—”
“My personal bathing chambers.”
My stomach drops.
I look below the surface to the hole in the wall I’m pressed against, a gentle current swirling at its entrance ...
It’s like the one in Puddles. Inmypuddle. The one I’m lured toward on the off chance I’m gifted a streak of Rhordyn’s scent.
My guiltyfuckingpleasure.
Slowly, I peer up at the stoic male standing over me.
The air has changed—become charged with the mix of our scents. But it’s more than just that ...
It’s the way he’s looking at me now.
There’s a hunger in those eyes that’s so potent, it’s scalding my cheeks, pooling liquid heat in that intimate spot between my thighs.
I release a shuddered exhale, choking the sound by biting down on my lower lip, tongue glazing across the plump flesh as if to taste his breath on it.
The ball of his throat bounces, and my gaze travels up the strong line of his neck before traversing along his sharp, masculine jawline. I get snagged on his chin dimple and that dark frosting of stubble, remembering how it felt grating on my neck. Recalling the mark it left—a rash that branded me for two days.
And then his mouth: sculpted, sensual, lips barely parted. If I tip my chin, I could taste him.Reallytaste him.
With that thought heavy in my head, the treasured scraps of his breath on my face feel utterly insignificant. Because I want itall.
I want that mouth to hunger over me with the same primal veracity that he seeks my blood when he’s gone too long without it. I want him to nip at my lip, to feed from me while I reciprocate in an entirely different way.
Sustain my hungry heart.
Pulse whooshing in my ears, I lean into the small space separating us—
My mind splits from thenow,and I’m back in a freezing bath, tears sluicing down my cheeks. He’s walking away, leaving sharp words protruding from my heart.
I suggest learning to fuck your own fingers. You won’t be using mine again.
The memory jolts me from my lusty smog, and I see this situation for what it really is ...
Me, leading my heart to the whipping post.
I place a hand on his chest, looking at the spread of my fingers, thinking about how small it looks against the breadth of him ... then I draw a deep breath andpush.
He slides back like a blade through butter, and I let my hands ball into fists that suddenly feel too delicate. Too weak.
“I’m okay now,” I rasp, though the words taste like the lie they are.
I’m not okay.
I haven’t been for years. I’ve just been hiding; keeping myself occupied. Now the perfect symphony of my routine has lost its rhythm, and I’m adrift.
