Page 15 of Desired for Her Blood
I knew I was attracted to Axe, but didn’t realize how much I wanted a relationship with him until I heard I couldn’t have one.
His huge hands push up on my breasts as his fingers rub my nipples and I moan at the pleasure and the torture of wanting so much more.
He gasps, and his hands still.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’ve got an idea.” His voice is gruff and deep and sends all kinds of thrills racing through me. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I expel on a harsh breath as his fingers slide over my nipples, but then they shift away, leaving my body tingling and on fire with the anticipation of their return.
Moving ahead of me, he takes my bound hands and leads me forward into the darkness. I can make out his shape, but little else. A shiver of fear traces through me, but it’s delicious and intensifies the dampness between my legs.
Taking my shoulders, he turns me to face him, and then lifts my arms above my head. “This okay?” he asks, his lips near my ear, the moisture of his breath bathing my throat.
I nod.
He lifts me off the ground and stretches my arms even higher, and then returns my feet to the ground. I pull my arms forward, hoping to touch him, but realize my hands are stuck. He’s hooked the t-shirt over something that’s above me leaving me stretched and barely able to move.
I tip my hips to test my confines and my butt strikes stone. He has me strung up against the wall of the cave, and I barely have time to consider why there’s something in here to let him do that, when his lips latch on to one of my breasts.
Gasping, I arch into the suction as he pulls my nipple between his lips and cups both breasts with his palms. I squeeze my legs together, as much as I can, hoping the force will give some satisfaction to my pounding need.
But as he sucks on my breast, and his tongue twitches and swirls, my need grows. My mind goes blank, consumed by the pressure and pleasure focused on my taut nipple.
The gratification centered on my breast is so intense that I barely notice as one of his hands drifts lower, sliding down my torso and stroking the seam between my tightly clenched thighs.
I eagerly part my legs and rise to my toes, inviting his hand forward, and his fingers slide gently, teasing, barely grazing me down there, as my hips swivel and pulse, greedily encouraging his touch.
“Please!” I pant, my pelvis pulsing, my insides contracting, both actions vain attempts to gain satisfaction from a hunger that only grows stronger.
“Even my fingers are thick,” he growls against my ear. “Are you sure you are ready?” The digit in question parts my folds, as if testing for moisture that I know is there in abundance.
His finger hits my wetness, and he groans like it brings him pleasure too, and then his finger’s attention concentrates over my opening, teasing, testing, but not dipping inside.
Even without breaching my tight ring of muscle, the pressure there is delicious, and my hips buck, doing all they can to lure his finger inside me, but I’m so high up on my toes with my arms stretched far above my head, that any motion is difficult.
His finger continues to tease my entrance, spreading my juices, as if toying with the idea, but not actually entering my body, and while he does that he starts kissing the rest of me, my throat, my collarbone, the hollow at the base of my neck.
Excruciatingly slowly, his mouth explores my skin, not leaving any part of me neglected as if every inch tastes different and he doesn’t want to miss any flavors.
His tongue circles my armpit and his moan vibrates into me, awakening a pleasure zone under my arm that I never imagined existed.
My mind is at war with itself, part of me wanting him to move faster, to get on with it, to push something—anything—inside of me, but part of me is reveling in this slow, slow build, this exquisite pace.
And I’m luxuriating in the obvious pleasure he’s taking in learning my body, finding its most sensitive places. Not to mention the pleasure his explorations are giving me.
Yielding to the reality that I can’t move, I relax and let him proceed—his warm lips, firm but soft, his hot tongue, his damp breath—all stimulating every inch of me as they travel down my body, but passing over my hottest zone. There his finger remains, applying its firm, unrelenting, but unsatisfying pressure.
His mouth continues down the lengths of my legs and back up again until his tongue is circling my belly, and then lapping with firm strokes that stretch from the top of my bush toward my belly button and back down.
Those glorious strokes of his tongue each yield so much pleasure I can barely contain myself, then they lengthen, going lower with each pass until one finally brushes my clit.
I cry out, my hips bucking into his face.
And his hand, the one not pressing against my entrance, parts my folds to make way for his tongue’s direct contact with my sex, and I lose my mind. My head tips back against the wall and my breath expels in shaking threads as his tongue strokes, seeming impossibly soft and rough at the same time as he licks my parted folds, abrading me from my entrance, where his finger is still pressing and circling, and up to my clit where this tongue lingers before stroking back through my folds again.
“Ember,” he moans against my exposed sex. “You taste like honey.”
