Page 64 of Fangbanger

“Patience, little slayer.” He sets his mouth to my thigh, tongue swiping possessively up the sensitive skin. I am needy and twisted inside, and he is so slow. I tug at his hair. He answers by shoving my legs wide enough to hurt and delving his tongue between them.

The flat of his tongue drags over my clit. He twists it, pushes it inside me. It is—the only word is obscene. I can hear how wet I am. He makes a pleased sound. His hand kneads my thigh.

For me, echoes down the bond.

That’s new. I’ve never heard his thoughts before. His mental voice is dark and silky.

I feel his pleasure at how wet and ready I am for him, how much he likes the taste. I flush hot. He really likes the taste.

For you, I send back, trying to show him how much I like what he’s doing.

I haven’t eaten in centuries, mate. His mental voice laughs at me. He pauses to grin up at me, eyes sparking. I hope you’re free all night.

He pushes his tongue back inside me. I clench. “Fuck,” I groan. All I can see is the bobbing top of his head, his broad, muscled back pushing me open, and the press of his hips as he grinds against the mattress. My belly twists. He likes this. As much as I like this. My stomach flutters.

He doesn’t respond, just fucks me with his tongue and rubs my clit with his thumb as I gasp and tremble on the bed.

“There are benefits to a mate who doesn’t need to breathe.” I manage the words. His chuckle is a rumble against my thighs. The orgasm is twisting tighter in my stomach. I want it. I chase it, hard, and he responds by pressing me to the bed with one broad hand.

“Patience,” he growls.

“Marcus,” I demand huskily.

His gaze flicks up to mine. His mouth is wet. “My mate is not patient,” he teases. “You want me to fuck you, Leah?” His smile turns cocky. “Or do you want me to bite you?”

I swallow hard. “Both,” I rasp. “As long as there’s no danger of the bond sealing.”

He shakes his head. “No longer. The bond deals in pain now. Not pleasure.”

Before I can ask what that means, he dives his head down again and sinks his fangs into the vein at my groin. Pleasure slaps me. It’s a tornado, and I’m at the center, awash in sensation as he pulls on my vein and the orgasm short-circuits every nerve ending.

I’m still coming when he pushes inside me. I can feel myself pulsing around him, and I dimly register the ragged sounds he makes as he wedges himself deeper. I try to tell him down the bond that I like the stretch, like the way he steals my breath. I like working myself onto him and feeling like he might not fit. I like the patient way he holds himself and the tautness of his arms as he tries not to hurt me.

I tell him all of this and get a jumbled mess of images back. The way he sees me—like there’s a fuzzy, champagne-colored overlay on my features. The hot spark in his chest when he gives me pleasure. The tightness in his stomach. The need he has for me—an ocean of it. It’s feral and greedy and it would kill for me.

My eyes fill.

“No one has ever felt like that for me.”

He nods, eyes silver. “I do.” He cups my jaw and pushes all the way inside. I moan, lids fluttering. “I do, Leah,” he rasps. His eyes are heavy, and he looks seconds from coming. His hand finds mine. His mouth meets the edge of my neck. My pulse greets him, as if he owns that part of me.

I twine my arms around his neck. I am overwhelmed with sensation—the orgasm rapidly building behind my belly button, the thick ridges of his cock, the anchoring weight of his hips and his stomach. But more than that—it’s the seesaw of the breaths he doesn’t need to take but makes anyway, the raggedness of his groans, the clutch of his fingers.

“I do not want to let you go,” he says. He kisses me again, and I hope he can’t taste my tears.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I tell him.

He rocks his hips and I cry out.

“I have never wanted anything like I want you,” he says huskily. “There will never be another like you, Leah.” He kisses my temple, my cheekbone, my jaw, frantically thrusting, like he can keep me with him.

My heart feels like it’s going to crack. I know with certainty that when he leaves, I will break. One week with him has given me a window into what I’ll miss when he’s gone.

I kiss him back as we rock. His jaw, his ear, his mouth. “Marcus,” I plead. I’m so close, and I think he can feel it, because he grips my hips and uses my body to fuck himself, like I was made for his pleasure and he for mine.

His face twists as he comes, shaking, silent, the tremors contracting his stomach and knocking his head back. It’s the sight of his pleasure that sends me over the edge, the force of it pinwheeling through my stomach and lighting sparks down my limbs.

It shakes me with force I didn’t expect. But then again, nothing with Marcus has been like I expected.