Page 112 of Thirst
A finger probed my wet folds. “What does that mean—that shake of your head?”
“It means no, I haven’t.”
“Since when?” He glided a fingertip around my swollen clit.
I gasped and arched my hips, blood pulsing in my ears.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Give me that much, at least.”
A jagged exhale escaped me. “Since you,” I confessed. “There’s been no one since you. Since that first time in Montreal.”
“Good,” he said against my ear. “Because I’d stake any man who’d had you. And then I’d make you pay for it—like this.”
He removed his fingers. I whimpered my displeasure.
“Hush.” He crouched at my feet and helped me out of my panties.
The rest of his clothes vanished in a blur of vampire speed. He drew the comforter back and lifted me onto the cool linen sheets. I stretched, arms above my head on the pillow, one leg bent and falling to the side in a deliberately provocative sprawl.
He got a condom from his pants and set it on the night table, then paused, one knee on the mattress, taking me in. “Beautiful,” he said in husky tones.
I shifted restlessly, reaching for him. “Come here.”
He complied, crawling over me with an unhurried grace. The canopy lights turned his platinum hair into molten silver and his eyes—impossibly blue against those dark eyelashes—locked on me with a focus that felt almost feral, like the white Bengal tiger from my painting had stalked off the canvas to claim what was his.
He zeroed in my breasts again, drawing the tips into the warm cave of his mouth, sucking them into needy points. My hands came to his head, holding him close until he finished and pressed a line of kisses up my neck to my mouth.
“Beautiful,” he said again, lips moving against mine. “Incredible face. Tight, fuckable body. Even your fingers are pretty.” He turned and kissed my palm.
I blinked, drugged by pleasure. “You’re the beautiful one.”
He snorted.
“I mean it.” I toyed with the short hairs on his nape. “I love looking at you. I always have.”
He was on the move again, slithering down my body to my lower belly. I bent my knees, opening to him.
“Look at this, then,” he said, and waited until I met his eyes. Then he licked my clit.
Pleasure jolted through me, bring my hips off the bed. “Yes,” I rasped.
He teased the seam of my sex with his fingers and tongue. “Say please. We agreed you’d beg, didn’t we? You said it was fun.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes.” He nuzzled my mound, his stubbled chin brushing over the tender skin of my inner thighs.
When I just moaned, he growled against my clit, the vibration almost too much. “Say it.”
“Please.” I paused and added, “Lieutenant.”
He lifted his head and smacked me right—there. “Don’t call me that.”
I yelped and yet I loved it, wanted more of that pleasure/pain.
I pouted and raised my arms above my head, conscious of how it lifted my breasts, and wriggled on the sheets. “You don’t answer to ‘Lieutenant’?”
He bared his teeth, the tips of his fangs glinting sexily. “Not when it’s you. You can call me sir.”
