Page 62 of Hunt the Dusk
“It’s best if you’re lying down, Miss Lighthart.”
Maybe it was the formal address or maybe it was the nervous tic in his jaw that convinced me to oblige.
“Fine, but no funny business.” I led the way toward the bedroom, stomach filled with gnarly knots.
He trailed after me. “No funny business. Not unless you demand it.”
My cheeks heated. “I won’t.”
“Then there is nothing for you to be concerned about.”
The bedroom felt smaller with him in it. The bed, which had seemed huge, felt tiny as I climbed up onto it. He closed the door, leaving us in lamplight, shrugged off his waistcoat, then unbuttoned his shirt.
“Take off your clothes,” he said. “Unless you want to get blood on them.”
The thought of being skin to skin with him made me ache in a way it shouldn’t, which irritated the fuck out of me. “I’m fine. You should keep yours on too. You can always get it washed.”
“Blood stains do not come out easily from this fabric.”
“Seriously?”
He slipped off his shirt. “Does my body offend you?” He opened his arms slightly, offering me an excellent view of his broad shoulders and tapered waist. His pectorals were firm and flat, and he looked like he did crunches for a living because his abs were like cobbles.
I wanted to touch him. “Yeah, put the shirt back on.”
His smile said he suspected exactly what I was thinking. “As you wish.” He slipped his shirt on and did up a few buttons to hold it in place before indicating the bed.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I kicked off my shoes before climbing up and lying on my back. “I feel like I’m here for a physical.” Why had I said that?
The bed dipped as he joined me, and it was suddenly harder to breathe.
“Relax,” he crooned.
I didn’t like this slowly, slowly, bullshit. We were here to get a job done. “Let’s just get on with it.”
My pulse lurched as he hovered over me, skin singing when his fingers brushed it to move my hair to one side. His eyes were like the glowing embers of a dying fire, warm and sleepy as they dropped to my neck.
“Ah, so eager.” He pressed his thumb to my thrumming pulse and inhaled. “So potent.”
“Just bite me already,” I snapped.
“Very well. This will hurt…at first. But then you might have the desire to touch me. You have my permission to do so.”
“Thanks, but no?—”
His head whipped forward, and needles pierced my neck.
I screamed as fire burned a path down my throat. He covered my mouth with his hand, stifling my sobs as he sucked hard, releasing my blood into his mouth in gulps of agony.
Hot tears burned my eyes, blurring the patterned ceiling. I thrashed, survival instincts driving me to be free, but in the next moment the pain ebbed, and liquid heat filtered through my veins, wrapping around my throat then sweeping down to coalesce at the peaks of my breasts before skimming down to settle between my thighs in an insistent, ravenous throb that demanded attention. I moaned against his palm, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin, hand clawing at his biceps, fingers digging into the taut flesh not to push him away but to bring him closer. My body was a mass of sensations, shivers, and pulses that begged to be explored, and my head swam with carnal images desperate to be enacted.
His hand slipped from my mouth, thumb lingering on my bottom lip. I turned my head to capture it, sucking on it with a moan.
His body slid over me, hip to hip, pressing down, even as he continued to devour me. My breath shallowed, heart fluttering. Was this death? Why wasn’t I afraid?
I sank my fingers into his silken hair and made a fist, holding him to me as my hips rocked against him and an orgasm built.
“Please, please, please.”
