Page 53 of Wicked Dove
“And I said you better tell me who the fuck did this to you before?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interjects, but it does nothing to cool the burning inferno inside of me.
“Tell. Me,” I boom, every inch of me soaked to the bone. I tighten my hold on her chin, desperately. “Tell me and I’ll make it right,” I promise, and she shakes her head as her eyelids drift closed.
“There is no making it right,” she insists, and I shake my head.
“Tell me and I’ll make it better.” It’s a vow. No one, not anyone, should have scars like this, let alone a woman, let aloneher.
Relaxing my hold on her chin, I ghost my fingertips over her shoulders, each hand a mirror image as I stroke down her arms to her wrists. Blood still stains her skin, so I work my thumb in small circular motions to soothe the coloring away.
Once it’s all gone, I check both sides to make sure there’s not a single drop that remains, and that’s when I realize the vampire’s marks have gone altogether.
That’s weird. They would usually need someone like Thorne to heal them. And why isn’t she writhing in pain from thepuncture? That’s what usually happens. A vampire’s bite is lethal, especially to someone like her. Yet, just like the scratch from Willow, she didn’t make a single sound, not that I heard at least.
Releasing her wrists, they fall loosely at her sides, and I dare to meet her stare. The soft scent of coconuts fills the air and I know it’s coming from her hair. I watch as her chest rises and falls, slowing down every time, and it seems to calm me along with her, my senses finally returning to me. But I’m not done, not by a long shot.
I lift my hand to her face again, eyes locked on hers, but this time, I stroke my thumb across her cheek delicately, like the petal that she is. “Tell me and I’ll make you forget.”
My thumb falls from her cheek as my fingertips trace down her neck, over her collarbone, and down between the valley of her breasts. Goosebumps rise in my wake, stirring my cock back to life. She doesn’t stop me. I don’t know what I would do if she tried, but I force myself to pause as I reach her belly button.
Drawing my gaze from where I’m touching her, back to her eyes, I find them wide and needy, while her jaw falls slack. “Petal,” I whisper, unable to hide the desperation in my voice, and she breaks.
“My father.”
I nod, anger coiling tighter as I attempt to tamp it down and focus on her, just like I promised.
“Want to forget?” I ask, and she nods. I look down at her pussy and back to her face, making sure I’m clear, and she nods again.
I close the remaining distance, my fingertips tracing between her folds a second later, and she gasps. It’s an elixir for my ears. I want to drown in her groans.
“Part your legs, Petal,” I order, and she does, creating the perfect amount of space for me to explore with my hand.
Swirling my fingers around her clit, her back arches in delight as her gaze remains fixed on mine. Every touch makes her louder, gasps turning to moans, which reach cries as I thrust two fingers deep into her pussy.
Her hands land on my shoulders, clinging to me for dear life as I curl my fingers in her core.
“Rion,” she whimpers, and I hate how lost she looks. Her eyes are a vortex to her soul, and I can see it all.
“It’s okay, Petal. I’m going to take care of you,” I promise, grinding my palm against her pussy in time with the curl of my fingers. I know the moment I find her sweet spot. She bucks off the wall uncontrollably, following my touch.
I don’t make her wait for it. I give her everything she deserves, everything I promised, and just like that, she falls apart at the seams, screaming my name as she comes all over my hand. Making sure she gets to enjoy every wave of release, I stay under the shower’s spray until she’s spent. Only then do I pull my hand back and step out, muddying the white mat with my boots.
“What about you?” she rushes, but she doesn’t move from where the wall props her up.
“Today isn’t about me.”
She pouts, and as much as I want to explore more of her, there are other matters to contend with.
“Your father’s name,” I order, and her eyebrows pinch in confusion.
“Rion?” she breathes, uncertainty thick in her voice.
“Your father’s name,” I repeat, watching as she nibbles on her bottom lip, deep in thought. I don’t know what she’s got to consider, but it seems she thinks the same after a few moments pass and she exhales.
“Warren. His name is Warren Blackwood.”
SIXTEEN
