Page 113 of Thirst
“Yes, sir.” I traced a slow, teasing line down my throat. “Forgive me, sir.”
He rewarded me by parting my folds and swiping his tongue up to my throat. He sucked the swollen flesh into his mouth, drawing circles with his tongue until I was panting and arching into his mouth. “Please, sir. Please…”
But instead of letting me come, he lifted his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?” I asked, half-pouting, half-serious.
“Because I said so.”
“Maybe I don’t want to wait.”
I slid my hand down my abdomen, my gaze daring him to stop me. He watched as my hand crept closer to my mound. His nostrils flared once, like he was taking my scent deep into himself.
But just as I touched my clit, he intervened, removing my hand. He flipped me over, dragging me onto my hands and knees. His hand landed on my ass. “I said, Not yet.”
I quivered, tempted to keep fighting him, but also needing to take this. To be punished a little. That new page couldn’t be written until we’d cleared the air.
“Right now, I’m in charge,” he reminded me. “And I think you have a lot to make up for. After this, you’re going to stay on your hands and knees and take my dick, anywhere I want to put it. Is that right?”
He spanked me again, harder this time. And then again, and again. My head dropped forward, my butt tingling, my brain scrambled with lust.
“Answer me,” he ordered.
What was the question? But I knew the correct answer. “Yes,” I told the mattress.
Another hard slap that made my whole body clench. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s better.” He smoothed a hand over my burning cheeks. I tensed, waiting for another smack. Instead, he turned onto his back and slid between my open legs. When I glanced down, his fangs were fully unsheathed. He dragged them over my inner thigh, a slow scrape.
I moaned, so wet and ready, a single touch might set me off.
“Is this what you want? Or maybe this?” He drew my clit between his fangs.
I tensed, nerves sparking. The sharp points were on either side of it. Still, knowing they were so close to my most vulnerable flesh was scary but in an erotic way, like being tied to those four teak posts, open to anything he wanted to do.
“No?” he said, voice garbled because his mouth was full of me.
I shivered and grabbed his head, keeping him there. “More.”
A dark chuckle. He lifted his head. “Try again, pretty girl. You used to be better at begging.”
I knew exactly what he was remembering—that first night in Montreal, when he’d made me say it. Had kept me trembling on the edge, until I was babbling his name and “please,” over and over.
I loosened my grip on him. “I’m begging, okay?” I said, low and raw.
He just looked at me, waiting, until I said, “Please, Cain. I mean, sir. Please let me come, sir.”
“That’s better.” And then, without warning, instead of sucking my clit back into his mouth, he sank his fangs into my thigh just centimeters from my sex, injecting the aphrodisiac into my bloodstream.
Lights exploded behind my eyes. I dropped to my forearms on the bed.
“So good,” I moaned. Or maybe I screamed it. “So good, so good, so good.”
He didn’t let up, drinking and sucking until I was whimpering and yes, begging. Then he licked the small wounds closed. I knew he hadn’t drunk nearly enough. He was still taking care of me even though he must be aching to feed.
My heart turned over. I wanted so badly to tell him that I loved him. That of course, I’d accept his mate bond. Instead, I pressed my lips together.
