Page 88 of Maksym

A laugh tried to rise around his wrist and became another moan instead. Because safe was not the only thing I was.

Maksym’s length hardened beneath me.

There was no pretending otherwise. I sat across his lap in a thin sleep shirt, mouth locked to his wrist, drinking his blood while his hand moved over my back and his body responded with a frankness that made heat pool low in my belly. He did not grind against me. Did not shift to force contact. He simply existed beneath me, aroused and restrained, which may have been the cruelest combination available.

My hips rolled once before I gave them permission. Pleasure sparked. I froze, fangs still in his wrist. Maksym’s hand stilled, then moved again, slower.

“Use me, Grace. Take your pleasure,” his voice was just above a whisper.

The words went straight through me.

I swallowed another mouthful of blood. Heat slid down my throat and bloomed outward. My nipples tightened beneath cotton. My thighs parted slightly over him. The pressure between my legs built with humiliating speed, sharpened by hunger, blood, bond, and that he watched me as if there were no throne, no kingdom, no family, no war—only me and the way I shook against him.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

I made a protesting sound. It convinced no one.

My tongue worked against the wounds again, and he groaned. Quietly. Barely.

But I heard it. Felt it in his chest, in his thighs beneath mine, in the bond’s dark answering pull. His desire did not feel like Lucian’s. That mattered so much I nearly broke apart from the comparison. Lucian’s hunger had been consumption, a hand closing around the throat of the world. Maksym’s was held open. Offered. Controlled so I could choose whether to step toward it.

I rocked against him again. This time, I knew what I was doing.

The seam of my underwear pressed exactly where I needed it. My breath hitched around his wrist. I drank more deeply, and the pleasure built, curling through my spine. Maksym’s arm flexed under my hands. His other hand moved from circles to a slow, grounding pressure at my back, guiding nothing, allowing everything.

“Good,” he said, voice rougher now. “That is it. I am yours.”

The orgasm gathered differently than before.

Not like the shocking, involuntary detonation that had come with my first feeding. This one climbed. Slow enough to frighten me. Strong enough to make my hands tighten on his arm, nails pressing into skin. My hips rolled once more, then again, seeking friction with an honesty I would have denied in court.

Maksym bent his head. His lips touched my temple.

“You have taken enough,” he said.

Not a command. A warning. A care. The words tipped me over.

Pleasure broke through me hard enough that I tore my mouth from his wrist with a gasped moan. My whole body tightened, then shuddered. I heard myself say his name, not elegantly, not carefully, just “Maksym” dragged from my throat like a confession I had not authorized.

His hand held steady at my back while I shook. His wrist bled against my fingers.

Instinct moved before thought. I bent again and licked the punctures. Once. Twice. The wounds closed beneath my tongue, sealing as if my body had known this mercy before my mind did.

Then I collapsed against his chest. There seemed to be no bones left in me. Only warmth, blood, embarrassment, and a strange shimmering quiet where terror had been. Maksym’s arms closed around me loosely again. I breathed against him.

After a long moment, I said, “That doesn’t seem quite fair.”

His chest moved beneath my cheek.

“It is perfectly fair, my love.”

My eyes closed at the endearment. I was too tired, too full, too wrung out to object properly. I filed that failure for later. His lips brushed my hair.

“You will be strong when you meet my family,” he said. “Just as you should be.”

Several hours later, I stood in a private terminal wearing navy wool, knee-high boots, and the expression of a woman trying very hard not to ask whether vampires had opinions about TSA.

The travel dress Millie had chosen fit as if she had threatened the fabric into obedience. It was deep navy, fitted through the waist without making me feel trapped, the skirt falling with enough weight to move properly when I walked.