Page 19 of Fangs

The sound is swallowed, claimed by the darkness. I’m owned by shadows pulsing with a heartbeat that isn’t my own.

One tendril circles my other breast, and I feel it, everywhere at once. Nipples draw tight. Skin pebbles with goosebumps. My entire body becomes a map, and the shadows are reading every inch.

They push deeper. Stretch me. Fill me.

I’m nothing but sensation. Pleasure and fear and want and shame, all twisted together into a knot that tightens in my core. I buck against nothing, my hips seeking friction that the shadows provide in impossible ways. Inside and outside, everywhere and nowhere.

They fuck me like the air itself is taking me. Like I’m being claimed by the night.

And I want it. God help me, I want it.

I want more.

They use me with deliberate mastery. Teaching my body. The heat of them grows unbearable, hotter with every thrust, as if pure want is solidifying them into more than shadow. Pleasure builds in helpless waves. I come the first time with a muffled sob around the tendril in my throat, body shaking hard in the living bonds.

They don’t stop.

A second climax is forced from me, then a third—each one harder, wetter, more devastating. The shadows hold me through every tremor, suspended and open, while they continue their deep, rhythmic claiming of my mouth and pussy.

The curtains sway, and as they part, the moonlight catches the sharp, aristocratic angle of a cheekbone.

A man sits in the deepest shadowed corner of the room, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, watching the entire performance in absolute silence. Silver hair falls past broad shoulders. Luminous violet eyes burn with the same fire I first saw in the portrait. Black markings shift across the hard planes of his bare chest like living ink.

He has been there the whole time.

Panic cuts through the haze of pleasure like a blade.

I twist hard in the restraints, trying to tear free, trying to drop to the floor and run for the door.

The shadows react instantly.

They release my limbs only long enough to catch me as I fall. Possessive tendrils wrap my entire body in a full, unyielding embrace—arms, waist, thighs, chest—pulling me against a solid mass of living heat that feels like a man’s torso. The warmth spikes hotter, pulsing against my bare skin like veins filled with dark fire. They cradle me, restrain me, refuse to let my feet touch the ground.

I’m held suspended once more, but now the embrace is intimate, every inch of me pressed to the heated density of the shadows themselves.

And the silver-haired man in the corner still watches.

“Who… are you?” I whisper.

He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Blake,” he murmurs. The shadows around him undulating like a living cloak. “I am the monster you just invited into your bed.”

Blake

The shadows coil around her suspended body like serpents claiming prey, and I remain in the corner, consumed by a fury that burns as white-hot as my unbearable arousal.

My shadows.

I did not send them. I did not will them. Yet they pour from me like water through a broken dam, drawn to her heat. They wrap her wrists, her ankles, her throat. They slide between the slick folds of her cunt and she gasps, arching into the phantom touch, body answering pleasure she has never known. They fill her mouth and I watch her eyes roll back, watch her hips buck, watch her surrender to the darkness that is mine.

She convulses in pleasure instead of pain.

That should disgust me.

It does not.

She is exquisite in her surrender. Red hair spills down her back like spilled wine. Her breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath. Those impossibly deep caramel eyes fix on the shadows as if they are lovers, not demons.