Page 118 of Velvet Corruption

I grabbed the needle, shook off the excess alcohol, and hesitated. “How do I…?”

Kieran sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders like this was just another Tuesday. “Thread it first. Double knot at the end.”

I followed his instructions, trying to focus, trying not to stare at the cut—at the way his abs flexed when he breathed, at the way his thighs spread wide on the stool, framing me. My pulse pounded in my ears, my fingers trembling just slightly as I tied off the thread.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Steady,” he murmured. He used to love to use that word on me when I was anxious for an orgasm, when he insisted on taking his time. The last time I’d heard him say it, his mouth had been buried between my legs.

I swallowed, yanking my gaze back up to his. For all I knew, he could bleed out right here, and it would be my fault. I had to focus. I had to fix this.

But then I stepped between his knees, and everything else went quiet.

Too close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him, to smell blood and skin and the ghost of his cologne clinging to his throat. My breath caught. So did his.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said quietly.

His lips twitched like he wanted to make a joke out of it, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes softened. Darkened. Burned.

“It’s gonna hurt either way, Rubes,” he said, voice rough, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Might as well make it worth it.”

God.

The way he said my name made me want to do something really fucking stupid.

I forced myself to move, pressing one palm flat above the wound to keep his skin taut. His breath hitched—barely, but I felt it, sharp and undeniable under my hand. His stomach clenched beneath my fingers.

“Now?” I asked, my voice lower than I meant it to be.

Kieran’s eyes dragged over me—slow, heady, filthy.

“No,” he said, nodding toward the counter. “Hand me the vodka first.”

I did as he told me. He took a swig of it, put it by his side and made a face. “Okay. Now.”

I forced the needle through his skin.

Kieran’s jaw locked, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles went white. A muscle in his cheek jumped, but he didn’t make a sound.

I forced myself to breathe, to focus. In, out. In, out.

It was hot in the kitchen now, or maybe that was just me. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me—that intense stare, like he was memorizing my face, my hands, the way I touched him.

“Again,” he said through clenched teeth.

I pulled the thread tight, and his muscles jumped beneath my fingertips.

Goddamn it.

My hands were soaked in his blood now. His scent, his heat, his everything was everywhere.

It was too much.

He was too much.

I swallowed hard, doing the next stitch, then the next. Each time, Kieran took a sharp breath, but he didn’t move, didn’t stop me.

Didn’t stop watching me.

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