Page 44 of Kazimir

I rolled us so she was on her back, pinning her wrists above her head. “Yes,” I said. “It will be exactly like this.”

She gasped, arching into me, and I trailed kisses from her jaw to her collarbone, then lower, tasting the lingering salt of her skin. She writhed, half-laughing, half-desperate, and when I released her hands, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me closer.

“Part of my claiming will be to bite you and to drink from you. Is this something you will be okay with?”

She ground her heat toward my impossibly hard cock.

“I want your bite. I crave it.”

“I cannot promise to be gentle. I do not want to hurt you. But my need for you is incredibly strong.”

“Kazimir, I’m immortal. I’m an angel. I want all you have to give me. Don’t hold back. I need and want you exactly as you are. The King of Kings, the monster, and the man.”

Chapter 13

Devon

Kazimir rolled me onto my back like I weighed nothing, like I were something he’d been built to hold, and the mattress cupped my spine as if the bed wanted in on the worship, too. Cool lips mapped the hinge of my jaw and the column of my throat; I felt the promise of him hovering, the breath of an old world exhale over the spot where my pulse threw itself against my skin. My body went still the way prey goes still—only I wasn’t afraid. I was starving.

His hair slipped forward like spilled midnight as he paused over that small, traitorous throb. His mouth didn’t touch, not yet. He breathed me in, and the sound he made was quiet and wrecked. The world narrowed to the point of his restraint.

He lifted his head. Those pale eyes caught me—focused and almost tender, with the edge of a storm waiting to break. “I want to taste you,” he said, accent curling around the words. “I believe it will seal what we already feel.”

My yes rose from somewhere older than my name. “Please.” The word surprised me—soft, open, sure. Not obedience. Agreement. It slid into the air like a key into the right lock.

He kissed me instead of biting. Mouth to mouth, firm and patient until I parted for him and forgot why I’d ever needed air. He took his time: his tongue learning me, his hand at my jaw angling me for each deeper pass. I felt dizzy with it, not like falling, but like finding gravity again after months of floating.

When he broke the kiss, he did it only to worship me more thoroughly. His mouth trailed down, the path of a pilgrim. He gave each clavicle a wet, claiming kiss and then descended to where my breasts lifted, flushed with heat. He cupped both in those hands meant for violence and reverence together; the contrast stealing my breath. His thumbs teased my nipples until they tightened under the lightest pressure, and then his mouth closed around one.

The sound that tore up my throat was embarrassingly loud. He swallowed it like a good omen.

His tongue drew circles that were not quite symmetrical, because perfection would have been cruel. He used just enough teeth to make my nerves sing, then soothed me with soft suction until I was arching into him, needing more of a thing I hadn’t known to ask for. I curled my fingers into his hair, holding him there like he might forget what I was made for.

“I won’t break,” I heard myself say. It came out a dare.

“I know,” he murmured against my skin, words vibrating straight into my chest.

He shifted his attention to the other breast, his palm kneading the first, the two sensations talking to each other across my ribs. Heat puddled low in me. My thighs rubbed together of their own accord, naïve and shameless. He noticed; of course he did. One hand slid down my side, fingers counting ribs, tracing the curve of my waist, memorizing the place I bit my lip.

By the time his mouth left my breasts, I was trembling. He kissed a line down my sternum, lower, tasting the dip of my navel as if it mattered as much as my mouth. He didn’t skip the bones; he gave my hip a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made me jolt. Everything that had ever felt like absence in me started filling with a slow, bright tide.

He settled between my thighs with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner. His hands urged my knees wider, and I obeyed without thinking, breath stuttering as cool air kissed heat. He took a second to look at me. Really look. The kind of gaze that could have been clinical in someone else. In him, it was devotion.

“I’ve never been seen like this,” I confessed. It hurt and healed at the same time.

“You have always deserved to be seen,” he said, and lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow and deliberate. Not a test. A claim. My hips leaped up, seeking more without permission from my brain. He anchored me with one broad palm on my lower belly, and the weight of it grounded me to the bed, to him, to now.

I didn’t know what my sounds would be until they were already in the room. Little gasps turned into broken words turned into something like prayer. He found my clit and drew it into his mouth with gentle suction, then released it to flick with the tip of his tongue until I actually whined. He laughed, dark and pleased, the breath of it ghosting over me.

“More,” I said, shocking myself with how greedy I sounded. “Kazimir, more.”

He gave me a slow stroke with two fingers over where I was slick and open, and then he pressed inside. Not a tease. Two fingers, thick, curling as if he’d known me forever. My body clutched at him in welcome. He used his thumb to keep steady pressure on my clit while he set a careful rhythm inside me—press, curl, retreat, repeat—searching for the angle that would break me open.

The moment he found it, I cried out; the sound cracking around his name.

“Good,” he said, low, like we were alone in a cathedral. “Again.”