Page 42 of Secondhand Soul

Her good hand is swift. Deft. It unzips me and lifts my hardness out while I’m still sucking in a surprised gasp. “I said—”

“I like what you said. If it doesn’t feel right, we don’t have to do things. But I’ve been feeling this poking me. I can make you feel better until we figure more stuff out,” she soothes, fist closing around me, gliding up me, soft and swift.

My eyes close as I sink into a kiss and the silky smooth feel of her palm.

There’s no jerk and tug, no “get this hard and in me.”

There’s soft and smooth, and she’s slippery satin against my hand when I reach for her leg, not sure what to do, just knowing that this is different.

“We didn’t go out to dinner,” I whisper, my fingers slipping further into velvet heat, caressing the slick spot at the center. My thumb rolls over the prettiest dark curls and slips over a hard spot that makes her eyes roll back.

“We don’t need to follow all the rules. We can eat out some other time.”

“Or now,” I growl, skimming down her body until my knees hit the floor with a thud.

This is what I want. This hot, wet place that she ought to make hers again. It doesn’t belong to some ghost, some thug, or even the grief she’s endured.

It ought to be the place that makes her feel good, and she ought to say who makes her feel that way.

She should shout his name.

My name.

This is Victoria’s body.

And Victoria is going to be mine.

I scream softly when Lazarus bows his head, throws his long arms up so his hands grip my breasts, and shoves his mouth between my legs.

He doesn’t bite, but he devours, all the while his hands knead my aching breasts, tweaking the nipples while his thick tongue discovers my secrets.

I was going to make him come. I was going to sleep with him. It would be part of whatever story I end up telling, whether it’s to Vince or to Lazarus, or even to myself.

He would owe me, maybe.

Now?

I owe him.

Like, a lot.

If there is one thing “alpha males” and dominant dons don’t seem to relish, it’s giving head. Only receiving. Sex is something you do to someone, not with someone.

How come the monster gets that this is a mutual thing?

“Wh... Whoa. Wow,” I whimper out sounds that aren’t anything like the words I meant to say. Lazarus doesn’t seem to mind. He smirks, wet lips shining with my juice as he runs his tongue past dangerous teeth and back between my lips. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, yes. I do. This is your body, Victoria. And you get to call the shots about who you invite in from now on. You wanted to be mine. And I want to taste you. My girl.”

His hand slides from my breast to my throat.

“Alive or undead, right, sweetheart?”

Oh, God.

Everything sparkles into blackness as his hand squeezes down and his tongue dives in. Pressure and pleasure take turns being the boss, but there’s no pain.

And despite the sinister hint of his words, I feel like there’s no danger, either.