Page 44 of Bought for Blood

“Bastard,” I groan, and of course I don’t mean it because my back is arching as I push my chest toward him.

His mouth closes over my nipple and pulls, tongue working hard and flat, sharp teeth a quiet threat against sensitive skin. My clit zings in response, and my hips thrust forward.

How, dammit?

How could I be so angry and want him so badly, both at the same time?

I get my hands between us and go for his belt. The buckle rings. I drag the leather through, wrench the button, shove his pants and everything under them off his hips. His cock springs free, and I take it into my palm, hard and smooth, the head already slick at the tip. I close my fingers around the shaft and stroke once, feeling the weight, the way the skin moves over the rigid length.

This is going to sting.

And I don’t care. I tighten my grip around the thick girth and pump my fist along it.

A rough groan breaks out of him against my breast. He didn’t plan that one.

“This,” I say, voice hoarse. “This is what I want. Now.” There’s no sense in denying it.

He lifts his head, pupils blown wide, then hikes my skirt to my waist. My underwear tears away in his fist; I hear the seam go. His hands come under my thighs and lift me. My back goes flat on the door, my legs closing around him. The head of his cock finds me soaked, parts my lips, and pushes. He drives in.

The door bangs in its frame.

“Oh, God!” The stretch of him, sudden and huge, cool inside all my heat, my inner walls clamping down hard on every inch. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for. He goes motionless, buried deep, his face at my neck. I feel every ridge, the blunt head pressed against the end of me, my wetness coating him already.

“Serenity.” Rough. Not the way I’m used to hearing him.

“Please!” I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs and drag him deeper.

He fucks me against the door. Hard, driving strokes that lift me and land me, the wood banging under every thrust. My wallsstretch around him again and again, wet sounds filling the space between us when he pulls back and sinks home.

My nails find his shoulders through the shirt. His hand closes over my breast, kneading, his thumb rough on my nipple. I’m climbing fast, too fast, the heat gathering low and tight where his cock is working me, my clit throbbing against the base of him on each downstroke. Then his lips find my throat, and his teeth rest against the pulse.

I turn my head and give him my neck.

“Yessss…” His breath slides along my throat. His teeth go in.

I scream. A shameless scream. It doesn’t stop him.

The pull of the bite slams into the drag of his cock, thick and hard inside me. Every draw of his mouth lands with a thrust. His hand works my breast in the same beat, three points, one rhythm. I feel the suction low in my belly, the way his tongue presses over the punctures as he swallows.

“Fuck!” I choke out. “Oh! Oh…fuck!”

My walls flutter and grip him tighter. He growls against my skin, hips snapping faster, the head of his cock hammering a spot that no one’s ever reached. My body seizes between him and the door.

“Oh…Oh…yes!” I scream again. The orgasm rips through me without warning, my walls pulsing hard around him, wet flooding out to ease the way as he keeps driving in. He slams deep, teeth sealed to my pulse, drinking me at the exact moment I’m wringing myself out around him. His cock jerks inside me, pulsing, cool seed spilling in heavy spurts that coat my insides.

The last of it takes a long time to let go of me, and I can’t get my breath back. He gentles, drawing slower. His tongue passes over the punctures and closes them.

He sets me on my feet.

He steps back, and cool air replaces him everywhere at once. I sag against the door, dress at my waist, legs shaking, thighssticky with his cum and mine. My hand lifts toward him, toward the mess I’ve made of his shirt, then drops.

He’s already dressing—trousers, belt, buckle—his hands quick and even, no tremor anywhere in them tonight. His face has closed over. What’s left is the man from the first night, courteous and finished.

“Dress,” he says, and I move away from the door and straighten my clothes.

He smooths his shirt, crosses to the door, and opens it into the corridor. The guard is hovering, face carefully neutral.

“Take her back.”