Page 64 of Wicked Bonds
She flips me off with both hands. I laugh, then spread her legs wider, my forearms braced on either side so she can’t close them, then lick her in one long, slow stroke from bottom to top.
She curses me, then begs, and I drink down every sound she gives me. She tastes alive.
I do it again, and again, until she’s sobbing. I suck her clit into my mouth, tongue flicking in an expert rhythm, and slip two fingers inside her at the same time. She’s so fucking wet, and the taste of her makes me dizzy.
She screams.
I don’t stop, just keep licking and finger fucking her until she comes again, then again, until she’s crying and cursing me and shaking like she’s going to fall apart.
When she’s finally done, I crawl up her body and kiss her, let her taste herself on my tongue.
She kisses me back.
I want to keep her here, like this, for as long as it takes for her to forget about the Accord, about Wickersly and the Coven, about every single thing that isn’t me. But that’s not how this works.
She licks my mouth her tongue hot and alive and so fucking human it hurts, then bites down on my lower lip. She’s still mad, and I want her to be, always. I want her to remember that I am the villain in this story.
“You’re not going to help me, are you?” It’s not a question. She already knows.
“I can’t,” I say. “But I want to.” I want so much I could split open with it.
It takes her less than two minutes to get dressed and leave, slamming the door behind her with so much force the windows rattle.
Thirty
Rose
Three more days pass. You don’t realize how precious, how fleeting time is until yours is limited. Knowing I have an expiration date, literally, has made me very aware of every hour that passes. And I’ve gotten no closer to finding the original blood contract. The only thing I’ve discovered is that rose thorns are vindictive little bastards and that Galanthis the cat has designated my search areas as his personal litter box. I’ve also had to sit through two more Samhain committee meetings where Thorne debated the merits of apple cider versus hot chocolate for one interminably long hour. I’m starting to think death by Coven drainage might actually be preferable.
Which is how I find myself standing outside Soren’s classroom at seven in the evening, questioning the decision even as I raise my hand to knock. The hallway is empty, most students at dinner or studying in the library.
The door swings open under my hand, and there he is, sitting at his desk like a normal professor instead of the energy-suckingdemon he actually is. He’s organizing papers into neat stacks, and the late evening light streaming through the windows makes his dark hair look like spilled ink.
The bloodmark on my arm starts burning the second I step inside, like it knows I’m about to do something monumentally stupid. I rub at it through my sleeve, which does exactly nothing except make it angrier.
Soren looks up, and his eyes brighten with interest before he carefully shifts his expression into something more neutral. “Rose. What an unexpected pleasure.”
I close the door behind me, lean against it. “I need your help.” I don’t know if I can trust him. I mean, I’m sure I probably can’t, and shouldn’t. But I’m out of options. Drake got me as far as he could, which was as far as he’d gotten in life. And now I’m stuck. Lucien made it clear he won’t help, none of the other students will give me the time of day, and I don’t think they know anything, anyway. Soren is my last resort.
He sets down his pen with deliberate slowness, leans back in his chair. “And here I thought you’d rather set yourself on fire than ask me for anything.”
“Yeah, well, desperate times.” I push off the door, force myself to walk closer even though every instinct screams at me to run. “You offering or not?”
Instead of the wolfish smile I expect, he gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. Would you like a drink?”
I eye the crystal decanter on his bookshelf suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Whiskey. Very old, very expensive, very good.” He stands, retrieves two rocks glasses without waiting for my answer. “Despite what you might think, I don’t want to poison you.”
“Just psychically violate me in my sleep.”
He pauses mid-pour, then continues, filling both glasses with amber liquid. “Fair point.” He sets one in front of me, returns to his seat without trying to touch me, which is, I’ll admit it, unexpected. Maybe even a little disappointing. “Though I’d argue the violation was wanted, if not mutual.”
Heat floods my face, but I grab the whiskey and take a sip to cover it. It burns going down, and I remember how much I hate whiskey. More of a Long Island Iced Tea kinda girl. “That’s not how consent works, asshole.”
“No,” he agrees, surprising me again. “It’s not.” He takes a sip of his own drink, watches me over the rim. “Which is why I’m keeping my distance now. See? I can learn.”
“Gold star for you.” He is keeping his distance, hands flat on the desk where I can see them, body angled away like he’s deliberately making himself less threatening. It’s weird. I don’t trust it. “Why?”
