Page 67 of Falling for a Villainous Vampire

And the sound he makes every time I do. That low, guttural groan, the greed in the back of his throat. It’s almost savage; he can’t seem to stop himself going at me again. Face buried deep, fingers in my cunt, mouth seeking every last bit of my slickness in a way that should probably delay my orgasm.

But then, every time he leaves my clit he finds it with his fingers. He strokes me as he licks through my folds and between the cheeks of my ass. He plays with me until I know I’m going to do it again. I know I am. And this one—it’s going to be big. I feel it swelling low in my stomach, my cunt. I get that viciously intense heat from it, to the point where I try to pull away.

It’s like a fist of molten lava between my legs.

But apparently, even that is not enough for him. He’s near delirious now, doing only whatever it takes to give himself something to feast on. That mouth, of course, his tongue, his touch. But also the hand he suddenly slides right up my nightdress. No warning, no sign that he’s going to do it.

He just does it, and it’s only after he has that I realize why.

My nipples are such tight, hard points that he could most likely see them through the material. And how he searches them out with soft, slippery fingers, and rubs and pinches and strokes until I’m almost screaming. I actually try to get away for a second. I squirm and buck against this absolute assault on my senses.

And the only thing that stops me is the sudden flood of sensation.

It bursts through me, so low and strong and sweet I can’t breathe. It just gets me in a vise, and squeezes and squeezes until I think I might actually die. Oxygen deprivation is just gonna take me out. I haven’t been able to take a breath for what feels like a thousand years, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to anytime soon.

He won’t let it end.

I’ve had my fill and he keeps going.

I don’t think he can do anything else. I think I taste too good, I think he’s too hungry, I think I’m gonna die from an orgasm. It’s honestly a shock when he suddenly rips himself away, gasping as I then do, chest heaving, mouth an absolutely glorious mess. He looks like someone who’s just been buried in the most addictive substance known to man.

But the first thing he does is pull me into his arms.

He holds my face in his hand, rubs my back with the other.

“Take slow, deep breaths,” he says. As if he actually panicked that I was drowning. That he was doing something terrible to me. He even puts the side of his face to my chest after a moment, half in what feels like a desperate need to hold me closer, half I think to listen to my heart.

“You’re all right,” he says, once he hears it beating. “You’re all right.”

And to my horror and happiness and fear and delight, I realize that I am.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

That is it, I tell myself.

I allowed myself to indulge that one time, and now I’m going to be much more sensible about things. And I prove this by letting him go when he leaves the bed for the sofa in the living room. After all, we only did that to feed him, and to scratch my itch. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more. It doesn’t mean we now cuddle together in bed.

I don’t even know if he is a cuddling sort of person.

Or, at least, that is how I justify doing this. Deep down, the answer comes to me as easily as breathing. I can almost feel it, in fact—the way his body would curve into mine if I slid my arms around him. The hand in my hair. His chin on the top of my head. He’s a tactile person underneath the layers of evil, I remember. Always touching whatever is around him, always running his hands over surfaces.

Though it doesn’t seem like a memory of him as he was a week ago.

It seems like a dream I once had. Rich and ancient, and so unsettling it gets me out of bed. I go to the bedroom door, and open it just a crack. Just so I can see him through the darkness of the curtains-drawn day, curled on his side in the exact way I thought he would lay.

Like there is someone missing in the space in front of his chest, and around the curve of his drawn-up legs. One half of someone going in and one half of someone going out, and then his hand where their head should be. It makes me think of the yin-yang symbol somehow.

But even that thought unsettles me.

It was just sex, I think. Just sex, just sex.

And now that is out of my system, too. I am never going to do any of that again, on god. It just doesn’t interest me anymore, I’m not thinking about it at all, I’m fine and carefree. “If you would like a little more you need only ask,” he suddenly says from the depths of this warm darkness. He doesn’t even turn his head. He could have said that in his sleep.

But I know he didn’t.

I know he meant it.

It’s the reason a jolt of something sweet goes through me, and I take a step before I’ve even had a chance to think about it. Heart hammering, head swimming, no part of me understanding how I can still be so hungry after everything that happened the night before. But it’s there, and it’s real.