Page 64 of A Dance Macabre

My attention travels to his hand reaching for the dagger instead, and my heart skips a beat in response to the anticipationwashing over me. Picking it up by the blade, Wolfgang holds the dagger toward me, coaxing me to take it.

“After you,” Wolfgang says slowly, a hint of sensuality in his tone. The timbre of his voice sends chills through my body.

I curl my fingers around the handle as I approach him, my other hand searing under the touch of his wrist. I hold his gaze, my thumb smoothing over the broken skin while his throat works around a hard swallow.

I can’t quite tell what compels me to do it; maybe I need some kind of reaction from Wolfgang, or maybe it has something to do with the confusing ache I now carry in the pit of my stomach. Whatever it is, the outcome is the same: I press my sharp nail hard into his flesh, effectively reopening the cut.

His hand flies to my neck, and I suddenly feel enlivened. I almost smile.

“Impish little scourge,” he growls, his arrogant grin revealing his two gold teeth, eyes wild and zealous.

“Apologies,” I say lazily with mock innocence, “did that hurt?”

His fingers tighten around my throat, and I am engulfed once again by the flame of wretched desire. “If it’s a grapple you crave, my ruin.” His tongue smooths over his teeth. It’s simultaneously menacing and enticing. “Then a grapple I can give you.”

The uncertainty of what Idowant has me drowning in a vat of muddled words. I take the dagger to his wrist instead. He curses when the blade slices into his skin anew, and I use his momentary distraction to free myself from his grasp. Taking a few steps back, I try as best I can to gulp down air that doesn’t carry the heady scent that is distinctly his.

Wolfgang stays motionless for a long tense beat, his gaze blazing with unspoken desire, his chest swelling with ragged breaths while blood slowly drips down his hand and fingers.

He pounces on an exhale, lunging at me, arms raised. My reaction lags, almost as if my subconscious held me on a leash knowing full well I have no intention of running from Wolfgang.

His bloody hand splays wide over my chin and cheek as he swings me around, walking me backward into the wooden table. My pulse races, exhilaration burning up my chest and cheeks. My reflexes finally catch up to me, and I press the dagger’s blade to his throat, but Wolfgang is unfazed. Even I know my threat is half-hearted. Swiping the cushion and vials off the table, he pins my back to the hard surface.

The sound of glass breaking barely pierces my awareness. Not when Wolfgang forcibly hikes my dress up over my hips, his eyes spiteful but drenched in pulverizing hunger. His leering tut, paired with his fingers roving over my dagger’s harness has my breath hitching with a burning ache. His touch is demanding, rough, and impatient, ripping through some of the holes in my fishnets.

“So predictable, Crèvecoeur,” he drawls as he unsheathes my weapon. “Never without her special little dagger.”

“With the number of times you bring it up, Vainglory,” I spit back, a taunting tug lifting the corner of my mouth. “I’m starting to think you’ve developed an obsession.”

He hums in agreement, his thumb slowly dragging his blood over my lips. “I certainly have.”

The implications of his reply pound behind my ribcage, my own maddening obsession seeking solace in his words. It claims this moment for itself. Silently, almost daringly, I let my arm drop down beside me, the ceremonial dagger clanging to the floor. Wolfgang’s glare flits to the ground, then quickly back up to me.

In a flurry of rapid moments, he lets go of my face and bites down on the blade of my dagger between his teeth before ripping my fishnets open at the hips with both hands. His hand swiftlywraps around my neck before I even have time to think of lifting myself up. Besides, my rational mind has never been the driving force behind this crazed waltz Wolfgang and I have fallen victim to. I’m naked under the fishnets, and my pussy throbs in erratic anticipation. I slowly lick my lips, and Wolfgang’s blood pulses on my tongue as if I’m tasting his very heartbeat.

Taking the dagger out of his mouth, his expression turns slightly thoughtful as he drags the blade over the small tattoo in the space between my hip and thigh. His dark gaze pins me even harder to the table.

“I once asked you if this blade had ever tasted the life force of a cold-blooded Crèvecoeur,” he muses.

He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, the dagger slicing into my skin as a small gasp falls out of my mouth. He chuckles darkly, his eyes turning manic and obsessive as he presses his thumb into the fresh cut with his free hand, the pain making my hips buck upward.

I’ve always enjoyed blurring the lines between pleasure and pain, but feeling Wolfgang circle the cut with his thumb, spreading my blood over my unmarked skin is unrivaled. The lines aren’t blurred, they are simply nonexistent, and without those useless boundaries, I’m ushered into mind-bending arousal.

A low mewl rises out from my throat when Wolfgang moves downward to my clit, his thumb still stained red with my blood. He circles it lazily, his gaze fixed on my open legs, and his breath turns ragged as he slides his thumb downward, the blood mixing with my wanton arousal.

I find myself blindly grasping at the edges of the table, mouth agape and eyes burrowing into his blown-out pupils. Dragging his palm roughly down my dress, he gropes my breast over my dress, and groans deeply, his focus slicing back to between my legs. Then with one large palm, he pins me to the table.

I feel the cold, hard edge before I realize what it is: The dagger’s handle sliding between my slit, my wet arousal making it glide effortlessly up and down.

There’s an arrogant kind of victory to his expression when he slowly pushes the tip of the handle into my entrance, my back arching with the sensation.

I’m rooted in place as I watch him pull the dagger out from between my legs and bring it to his mouth, his eyes a sea of black waves while he flattens his tongue over the handle and gives it a long, slow lick. My pussy squeezes around nothing but air at the sight, a flood of desire dragging me under the surf.

“You eventastelike obsession,” he muses, his voice full of grit. His eyes turn wistful for only a second before hardening and turning the handle over to me, tapping it to my lips. “Open.”

My mind is much too ablaze with passion to deny him, my body just as eager. My mouth drops open, my gaze fixed on his as he slowly slides it in, my lips wrapping around the hard pommel. His eyes dip to my mouth, watching in rapt attention as the dagger glides in and out. In and out. His hips pitch into the table with the movement, his hard cock digging into my leg.

Finally, he pulls the handle out and drags it over the fresh cut, my fingers gripping the table harder at the delicious sting before sinking it deep into my pussy with one thrust of the hand. My long moan echoes around the cold cellar, my stomach straining against his palm.

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