Page 43 of The Rogue's Curse

“Not having to breathe,” Misha said, taking him deep, down and down, until his lips sealed to the base of his cock. There was an impossible tightness there, the swirling of his tongue along Paris’s shaft, and the sheer marvel that Misha took him down his throat.

Aching heat pulsed in his belly as he watched the blood witch work his magic. Misha’s deft hands worked in a duet with his wicked mouth, never letting his cock escape. And God, the sounds the man made, hungry grunts and groans that were such a startling contrast to his poised elegance.

The heat gathered, the ache turning into desperate tension, pulling at his body, making his half-healed injuries ache. He didn’t care. He was desperate now, finally sating the hunger that had been gnawing at him since the first time he laid eyes on Misha Volkov.

“I’m going to come,” he warned. “Your choice where it goes.”

Misha let out another mm of affirmation and took him deep, his head bobbing quickly as he worked Paris to a finish. He groaned, hips jerking as he bucked into Misha’s waiting mouth. The smug bastard laughed around him, sucking him still as he drew out every last drop.

Misha rose, face flushed and lips swollen. He grinned and said, “Any regrets?”

“Hell no,” Paris said dreamily. His eyes drifted to Misha’s groin. “I see something I’d like.”

Misha raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

Paris slid his hands under the band of his briefs, savoring the firm muscle of Misha’s ass as he bared it. His cock sprang free, as lovely and thick as he’d imagined. The smell of Misha’s desire was utterly intoxicating now; it was dizzying and spiced like incense at midnight mass, making his head swim, his vision hazy.

But when he reached for Misha, ready to return the favor with interest, the other man caught his wrist lightly. “Not so fast. You’ve been a stubborn bastard.”

“And now I’m better,” Paris said, transfixed by those lovely, full lips. “Consider me a reformed man.”

“No, you’re not. I spoke to Rhys and told him I can brew a potion for you that’s much stronger than what Shoshanna York can make,” Misha said. He released Paris’s wrist and settled onto the bed, leaning back into the pillows. And he began to stroke himself firmly, still holding Paris’s gaze. “When we get back to Atlanta, you’re going to give me a blood sample, and I’m going to brew a panacea for you. And then you’re going to drink it.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Besides not walking around in constant pain and no longer being a liability in a fight?” Misha asked, still stroking himself. His cheeks flushed further. “Well, I’d really like to get you in bed. And I’d like to fuck you absolutely out of your mind. Or vice versa. I’m flexible. Does that sound good to you?”

“Sounds great,” Paris said, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of Misha’s hand. He wanted to touch, wanted Misha’s pleasure to come from him. The draw of his desire, the way Misha’s blood was heating and changing the very atmosphere… It was enough to drive him insane. He had to touch, or he would die of want.

“Tell me which one. After you let me take care of your health, what are we going to do?”

“Why not both?” Paris quipped. “Being thorough is a virtue.”

Misha laughed, then said, “Come here. Help me finish.”

It was an order and an invitation, and either way, the answer was yes, please. Paris grasped his cock and stroked firmly as Misha grabbed his face for a kiss. He let out a long groan, then kissed Paris’s neck hungrily as his hips jerked. His teeth scraped against Paris’s skin, and Paris realized he had fallen utterly under Misha Volkov’s spell.

He delicately licked the back of his hand clean, catching one of the scant few drops with his tongue. Misha tasted sweet and warm, reminding him inexplicably of mulled wine and wood smoke. Holding Misha’s gaze, he said, “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Why, because I get what I want?”Misha teased.

“A man could get offended that you don’t want to fuck,” Paris said.

“Who said I don’t want to fuck?” Misha replied. He cupped Paris’s jaw, holding his gaze. “You should be glad that I care enough to wait. I want you back to full strength so I don’t worry about breaking you.”

“You’re very full of yourself,” Paris said.

“So are you,” he said.

“I have good reason to be.” Paris laughed. “And so do you, obviously.”

Misha grinned and shifted down in the bed, then patted the pillow next to him. “Stay with me until sunrise. Or after.”

“I can’t stay after,” Paris said.

“Why not? Why don’t you sleep?”

Paris stared up at the ceiling, dread stirring in his belly.

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