Page 7 of Bitten & Burned
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “Greedy little thing… I can feel you milking me already.” His thumb stroked over the curve of my hip like he had all the time in the world. “Go on. Take it. Take every inch and make a mess on me.”
The words hit as hard as the thrusts—each one deeper, rougher, timed to keep me chasing the edge. My nails dug into his shoulders, clinging as the coil inside me tightened and snapped, my body seizing around him in pulsing waves.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his control breaking as I clenched around him. “Fuck… just like that. My perfect girl, riding me, taking me like you were born for it.”
The measured thrusts turned sharp and fast, his breath shattering into a guttural sound as he drove up into me. Heat burst between us, each pulse dragging another aftershock from my own climax until we were both shaking, both held in place by his hands locking me to him.
He didn’t let go until the last tremor faded. Not until he’d made sure I’d wrung every drop out of him. As our breathing collectively slowed, his hands loosened their grip onme, fingers stroking my hips softly as I came back into my own skin. He pressed a breathless kiss to my forehead.
Only then did his gaze flick down to my scarred leg under his palm. “How’s your leg?”
I exhaled softly. “Sore, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good.” His brow furrowed. “Well… not good that it’s sore. It’s good that you can handle it.” He smoothed his palm along my thigh as if testing the truth of my answer, his touch lingering like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.
“I suppose,” I mused, shifting in his lap. “I think I need to go see Dr. Drummond again. I’ll have to send him a Pulse as soon as possible so he’ll know to expect me…”
The ripple that went through him was instant—subtle, but unmistakable.
“…Of course, I’ll have to walk down the lane and a few lanes south to use the Receptacle on Ironwood and Bellflower if I don't want to wait in line for the entire night at the one just outside the building… gods, that walk alone makes me wonder if it’s worth it.”
His hand stilled, the warmth of it anchoring me even as his shoulders straightened. The change in him wasn’t cold, but watchful, the kind of alertness that made my pulse skip. He sat back enough to meet my eyes, still close, still touching.
“Yes, I suppose you should,” he muttered. The way he said it wasn’t hostile, per se, but it wasn’t said with the warm fondness I’d heard earlier, either. I could tell his sudden change in mood wasn’t due to the walk to the Pulse Receptacle either.
I searched his gaze briefly. “Come on, Vael. What’s wrong with checking in?” I asked. “I thought you liked him!”
“It’s not about liking or disliking, Rowena.” Vael’s voice was calm—measured—though a hint of sharpness edged through. “I know Silas is your former mentor and a talented cursebreaker in his own right, but whenever you see him, the wound improves for a few weeks at most, then you’re back where you started.Sometimes worse. Feels like a pattern. Why, you only just saw him two days ago and, already, you have to return.”
I could feel the edge he was trying to hide—the simmering frustration just under the surface.
“There’s no pattern, except that this curse is unlike anything any of us have seen. He’s trying his best. Just like you. Just like me.”
“Trying one’s best is no miracle. I can take the pain from you by biting your thigh and making you moan my name. If that’s not miraculous, nothing he does could be.”
I pressed my lips together angrily, pushing up and off him. He hissed at the loss and reached for me. But I slipped away and stood to get dressed. My clothing was on the chair nearby where I’d left it the morning before.
“Vael Vexley, you are, without a doubt, the most stubborn horse’s ass to ever grace Verdune’s soil.” If stubbornness were a virtue, the priests of Kathos would have painted his likeness on half the chapel walls in Sol.
I found my slip shorts first and pulled them on. Followed closely by my blouse.
Vael stood, fastened his trousers, and crossed over to me, trying to pull me into his arms. I shrugged him off and grabbed my corset instead. It was still laced from when I’d removed it the night before—far too tight to put back on, which meant it had to be released first.
The thought of doing it myself without magic killed the last burst of my irritation.
He sighed, stepped in behind me, and took it from my hands. “Here,” he murmured, fingers finding the knots, working them lax with practiced care.
Once the laces were sufficiently loose, I slipped the corset on and fastened the busk. He was already there, gathering them again. The brush of his knuckles against my back sent a shiver up my spine, no matter how much I wanted to stay angry.
“Ready?” he asked, voice low near my ear. I despised how quickly I would melt for that voice.
I nodded, and he pulled—firm, steady—drawing the garment tight around me. My breath hitched despite myself.
“I’m worried about you, Rowena,” he said finally. “If that makes me an ass, then I’m an ass.”
I picked up one of my stockings, scanning the floor for the other, only to find it dangling from Vael’s outstretched hand. I snatched it from him without thanks.
“I know you’re an ass, Vael. I know you worry. I have fears too.” I sat on the chair, rolling the first stocking up my leg, then the second. “I’m scared because it’s been six months since this thing appeared, and nothing shrinks it. Nothing gets me closer to removing it altogether. All we ever find are balms.” Balm after balm, poultices of Solian herbs, Norlese frost-salts, even ritual smoke on Camaday mornings—none had done more than dull the edges. I smoothed the stocking seam and glanced up at him. “I need a panacea.”
