Page 22 of Thirst
Part of me despised her for it. Were the fancy clothes, the jewelry, the status really worth letting him own her like that?
And she deserved a little hardship. The woman had nearly blown up me and my friends.
She gave my dick a squeeze that made me suck in oxygen, and I forgot everything except how good this felt. Gods, I’d missed it—and her.
Her mouth didn’t quit: licking…sucking… Sweet and hot and wet. Her eyes were shut, her lips closed around me.
My gaze went to the choker around her throat. My gift.
It was nothing—a black velvet ribbon studded with brass, something I’d picked up in a Goth-punk store the last time I was in London because it had reminded me of her. I would’ve liked to give her something pricier, but Nazaire would’ve noticed. I’d figured she’d toss it the next night.
But she hadn’t. She’d kept it—worn it in front of everyone at the art show. A cheap, ten-pound-sterling choker.
That unexpected, unwanted possessiveness snaked through my insides.
I heard myself grit out, “Stop.”
She took a few beats before pulling off. She frowned up at me, her lips slick, reddened. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” Hands still buried in her thick hair, I came to my knees beside her, driven by something I didn’t understand to share the discomfort, the hard surface along with her.
Nyx crawled backward, my fingers still in her hair, the two of us coordinating the change in position with that rapport we’d had since the very first night, like we were in each other’s minds, until she was on all fours facing me.
“Now.” I drew her head in the direction of my lap.
Instead of taking me in her mouth, she pushed back against my palms so she could look up at me, her eyes a tawny gold in the night.
I tilted her head sideways, exposing her throat.
She gulped, the choker moving with her muscles, her lids drifting closed. “Cain…”
I drew a breath, my fangs pricking at my gums. Having her submit to me like this almost made this godsdamn night—and everything I’d learned—worth it.
I gave her hair a tug, just for being so damn fuckable, and she whimpered, her need scenting the air. My syndicate princess liked things rough.
“Suck me,” I told her.
She immediately complied, resting that round ass on her leather boots, her lids half-lowered as she took me deep.
I stroked the side of her cheeks with my thumbs. “You look so beautiful—on your knees for me. You want this, don’t you? Want me to use you.”
Her long lashes lowered. I took that as a yes, especially when she sucked me deeper. Her fingers were around my root, her other hand massaging my balls.
She was good at this. Too good.
How many men had she knelt for?
I flashed on how her cousin Rodrigo had touched her, like he had a right to. Worse, the way he’d eyed her as she walked away from him, like he was thinking of making good on that right.
“Who else do you take like this?” I forced her to take me a little deeper, darkly satisfied when she relaxed her throat around me.
“No one,” she said around me, two garbled syllables.
“Only me, then.”
She nodded as much as she could with my hands in her hair and my dick in her mouth. All she could smell and taste was me.
“But,” I muttered, half to myself, half to her, “I wouldn’t know if you were lying, would I?”
