Page 29 of The Vixen

CHAPTER 8

LUNA

Sawyer doesn’t look stunned. No disgust curls his lip. No fear hitches his breath. It’s as if I never spoke.

“Now, Dreg,” I snap. Heat rushes to my face—like it was Sawyer who gave the command. It was easier when it was Sawyer.

His lips curve into a crooked grin as he leans in close, nose swiping a path to my ear. I hold my breath. Close my eyes.

“Please, Head Keeper. Please let me fuck you.”

I wince (too much), but the discomfort is quickly quelled by a nip at the hinge of my jaw—four incisors closing just hard enough to pull a gasp from me, sharp edges leaving a damp heat where they scrape. His hands press on my thighs while he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

“Come on, beautiful,” he prods with a whisper. I shiver. My lips part as I tilt my head back to expose my neck.

He doesn’t take the bait.

“What should I kiss?” Breath ghosts the slope of my jaw.

I swallow. Breathe in: “Take off my sweater.”

He smiles against my neck. Hands slide to my waist and take the hem of my sweater. The wool rasps faintly across my cheek as he lifts it, and I raise my arms to help him. Cool air snakes along my torso with every inch the fabric raises until it’s tossed to the floor and I’m left in a thin, white bra.

No cushion, no lace. Fat straps curve up and over my shoulders all in the vein of two triangular pieces of cloth—cloth that two months ago, I wouldn’t have questioned.

Now, as Sawyer’s eyes dip to my breasts, to pink nipples pebbling through the white … it’s all I can think about.

“Kiss along my collar bone.”

Amused eyes glance at me. “Yes, Head Keeper.”

My heart skips at the seriousness in his voice.

Fake.

His expression is too full of humor for the respect to be genuine, but a wave of something warm and heavy sifts through my veins anyway. It sinks deep within my belly as Sawyer lowers to my collar bone.

My eyes close as he takes the curved path to the tip of my sternum, each press of his mouth knocking my pulse out of rhythm. Teeth clip the edge where bone and the hollow of my throat meet, and he stalls long enough to lick the delicate groove.

My chest lifts with a breath as my head tips back. An invitation I didn’t intend to send, but one Sawyer accepts as he kisses toward my breast.

“I did not tell you to move on, Dreg.”

When Sawyer flattens his tongue on the space just above my bra, my shoulder twitches with as little control as a marionette.

I could stop it.

But I don’t.

“Slave,” he says into the valley between my breasts.

“What?”

“Slave is sexy.” Peppered kisses dance up my sternum. “Dreg is demeaning.”