Page 103 of Kick the Candle (Knight Games 2)
"Call when you are finished," he said, bracing my arm on the nearby sink. He left me then, closing the door to preserve my privacy.
When I was done, he returned and helped me behind the glass door of the shower. Holding me close, he tipped my head back under the spray. The warm water coursed through my hair, assisted by his fingers, and washed down the length of my body. I watched red tinged water circle the drain. Rick stepped back, taking me with him, and lifted a bottle of shampoo from the ledge. With his free hand, he squeezed some out into my hair and began massaging my head. I closed my eyes and hummed with pleasure as he worked the suds from the crown of my head to the ends of my long hair. The smell of vanilla and lavender wafted through the steam around us.
I leaned into him, not from fatigue but to indulge the sensory drive of my body. Even through the ache of my muscles and joints, a different kind of discomfort bloomed from my core, an ache for him. My body knew what it wanted, what it needed.
He finished rinsing my hair, and our eyes locked. A torrent of energy and magic spiraled through my body, building as we stood skin-to-skin. The corners of his eyes wrinkled, but he shook his head, breaking the connection.
Reaching for another bottle, he coated my hair in conditioner that smelled just as good as the shampoo, then grabbed a washcloth from the rack outside the door. He worked the soap inside the cloth, then placed my hands on his shoulders. "Can you hold yourself up?"
I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
He kneeled down in front of me, carefully lifting my right foot and lathering it with the rag. He worked his way up my calf, around the back of my knee, and up my leg. As he neared the apex of my thighs, I gripped his shoulders more desperately, not for balance but because my body burned for him. My breath came in shallow pants. He switched to the other foot, the other leg. When he reached my crest, he stood, lathering my abdomen, then my back.
I tried not to register my disappointment, as he seemed to skip the parts of me I wanted him to wash the most. My nipples were straining, peaked with anticipation. My core throbbed with desire. And under it all was this hunger, an unnatural, inhuman craving for his blood.
Supporting the base of my neck, he tilted my head back, rinsing the conditioner from my hair, then positioned me, a rag doll in his arms, under the spray to wash the lather away. I slipped my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him until no space was left between our wet bodies. He wanted me too. I could feel the hard length of him against my belly. Why was he hesitating?
"Please," I whispered into his ear. I followed up my plea by wrapping my lips around his earlobe and sucking gently.
He moaned. "Are you strong enough? I don't want to hurt you."
"I will be. I need this...to heal."
"My blood first, then."
Unlike my skin that moved aside easily for Rick's teeth, I had to cut or bite him for access to his blood. I didn't have my blade, and I was too weak to bite through his skin, so he did the honors. With a partially shifted hand, he dragged his talon across the space where his neck met his chest. As his flesh opened for me, I latched on, suckling the sweet ambrosia that was his blood. Warmth and strength spread outward from my stomach. My hand trailed down his abdomen to his thick shaft, partially sheathing him with my palm. He gasped. I stroked as I drank, until his hips began to thrust into the ring of my grip.
Feeling stronger, I pulled back and licked the opening in his flesh. It knit together, healing itself. He didn't wait a moment to replace flesh with flesh. His mouth came down on mine, his velvet tongue stroking inside until I thought I might explode from need. He bit my lower lip gently, then worked his way along the bone of my jaw and up to my ear.
"I haven't finished washing you," he whispered. I heard the soap jostle in the dish and then felt him back away. He built up a lather between his palms, replaced the bar. Those soapy fingers gripped my waist and twirled me around. Sandwiched between his large hands, one on my belly and one on my lower back, he slid both down, cupped my sex, worked his soapy fingers along my most sensitive area. I hinged forward, catching myself on the shower door, my chest pressing into the cool glass. His other hand rounded over my ass, washing me in the spray. Back and forth, around and around. I arched my back to give him easier access.
Every time we'd had sex before felt like a feeding, pleasurable, erotic, his excitement pulsing through our connection and mingling with mine. I could tell he was holding back, keeping me from seeing all of his emotions. But oddly, his guarded soul didn't put a damper on my attraction. After the last twenty-four hours, I felt exposed and vulnerable. I wanted him to own me, to control me. I wanted to be his in every way possible.
I pressed into his massaging hand, needing more. The spray rinsed over me, his palm smoothing the soap away. I inhaled sharply as he pressed against my backside while his hands swept up my sides to knead my breasts.
"Please," I begged. "Take me."
He pinched my nipples, hard, making me moan with ecstasy. The head of him pressed at my opening and I eased back until he was completely inside of me. His hand swept down my side, to the back of my leg and hitched one knee up, setting my foot on the ledge of the tub. I answered by raising my hips, to get a deeper angle. That was all it took. Gripping my shoulders for leverage, his hips unhinged. The glass door rattled with his advance and retreat. At the same time, he reached between my legs, massaging and stroking until the pressure grew to the point of no return. I exploded around him, my sex constricting as I called out his name again and again. I held nothing back. If our connection was open at all, he must've felt the change, that he owned me in that moment. But I felt nothing in return. He was closed off to me.
Patiently, he slowed while my body calmed, then pulled out just long enough to spin me around. He was back under me in a heartbeat, bending his knees to thrust inside of me from tip to base in one lithe move. He gripped me under the ass, and I wrapped my legs around his hips, my back crashing against the opposite shower wall. Joined, he stopped, ran his nose up the side of my face and looked at me with hooded, black eyes.
"I am yours, mi cielo. You own me."
"I don't-"
"You hold my chain as surely as if I were your dog." The words were matter of fact. No hint of resentment.
"You're not-" Didn't he know he had it backwards? I was his.
He pressed a finger over my lips and tilted his hips so he was deep inside. "You own me, but I am a jealous slave, and if you can not be mine in return, I can only assume you are better off without me." In and out, slowly he stroked. "Are you better off without me?"
"No," I moaned.
"Can you be mine?"
"Yes!"
Holding on tight to his neck, I braced myself as he began to slam into me in earnest, his entire body fully engaged in the act. And wasn't that a turn on? Watching him lose himself pushed me over the edge again, my orgasm milking his until the spray of the water ran cold and my fingers turned pruney.
