Page 82 of Ophelia's Vampire

But, with a smirk of his own and a firm grip on my waist—lower this time, fingers wrapping around to knead into the curve of my ass—he relents.

“Do your worst, Ophelia.”

26

Casimir

There’s a goddess in my bed.

A living, breathing goddess with her dark curls falling around her shoulders and a mischievous glint in her soft brown eyes as she goes to work stripping me of my shirt.

She’s also a cruel goddess, apparently.

Holding myself back from touching Ophelia the way I’d like is nearly impossible, but if she wants to play, I’ll let her play.

I’m hard as a godsdamned stone under my trousers, something she’s certainly more than aware of as her fingers brush over my chest, my stomach, lower, before she glances up at me through dark lashes. She pulls the two sides of my shirt apart and brushes a kiss to the center of my chest.

It turns the rest of me to stone, freezes the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart, only to have it all come back to warm, vibrant life a moment later when she grins at me.

“Take those off,” she says, gesturing to my shirt and loosened tie.

I slide them over my shoulders and toss both to the floor. “Any other orders, goddess?”

She laughs, like the endearment isn’t meant to be taken literally. “No. Not right at the moment.”

I rest my hands back on Ophelia’s waist, reveling in the warmth of her as she takes her time exploring all the skin she’s laid bare. Fingertips trailing over my shoulders, my biceps, the back of my neck as she leans in to nip at my bottom lip, I bite back a groan at the feel of her pressed against me. The soft planes of her stomach and the swell of her breasts, nipples tightened with excitement and the slight chill of the room.

She hums her pleasure as her lips graze my throat, and this time there’s no stopping the groan that slips out of me at the press of her teeth against my skin.

Sweet, wicked creature.

Beautiful, impossible, wondrous woman.

Ophelia reaches down between our bodies, mouth traveling up to capture mine, and any coherent thoughts simply cease to exist as she cups and squeezes me over my pants.

I feel the curve of her smile against my lips and taste the sensual amusement in her chuckle.

“Damn, Cas. You’ve been holding out on me.”

Gods, but my ego doesn’t need any stoking, not now. Not when I’ve never been as viscerally satisfied with myself as I am to have somehow earned this woman’s touch, her pleasure, her trust.

Her fingers catch on my belt buckle with a faint metallic clink as she goes to work unfastening my trousers, and I take a deep, shuddering breath to rein myself in.

It creates just enough space in the haze of arousal clouding my mind for a sliver of disquiet to work its way back in. A reminder of everything that happened in Philippe’s office, a sharp stab of fear and an echo of red-tinted fury at seeing him with Ophelia.

Agonizing, how quickly that darkness flooded back in.

I thought myself removed from it, able to think past it, reason through it.

But the moment I saw Philippe with his hands on her, his fangs exposed and hovering just above her throat, there was no question.

I would have killed him.

Quickly, efficiently, without hesitation or remorse or any kind of pleasure, but I would have killed him all the same.

For her.

And now that she’s here, full of wicked teasing and flush with pleasure, wearing my mark on her most intimate place, that ageless instinct settles back into the safe, secure abyss I’ve kept it all these centuries. Calmed and sheathed, though I know it would be no great reach to wield it again if it meant protecting her.

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