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I lean forward, fingers curling into the bedding, because if I don’t touch or move, I’ll combust from nothing but want.

“Lay back,” he says, quiet but final. A promise disguised as a command. “Let me take care of you.”

I obey because I want to.

The mattress dips as he kneels between my thighs, spreading them with deliberate care. Air chills the spots where I burn hottest, a whip of contrast that makes me shiver. He strokes my skin like a benediction, as if reacquainting himself with holy ground—slow, deliberate. When his fingers slip beneath my lace, the intimacy of it makes me ache.

“You’re soaked,” he growls, hunger raw in his voice. “You smell so fucking delicious.”

I writhe under his gaze, the honesty of his want burning through me. When his fingers brush over the damp lace, I turn my head, burying a gasp in the crook of my arm. My thighs tremble, every muscle tight with need.

“Malachi,” I whisper as a plea. My body remembers, draws the last time up from somewhere so deep and vulnerable it almost hurts.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, worship and raggedness blending in the sound. “Soft and messy and ready to fall apart for me.”

And I do fall apart—carefully, ritual-sharp, every movement significant.

He peels the lace down, his mouth following—tongue and lips blazing a path like scripture. He kisses along my inner thigh, pausing to nip just enough to make my hips stutter. He laughs low, then drags his tongue up, claiming and patient, until his mouth finds me.

I moan, loud and uninhibited, giving myself up to the sensation, the pleasure that’s finally mine. He groans in response, the rumble sinking straight into my skin. His hands keep me open, his mouth worships—thorough, measured, undoing me with slow, calculated devotion. He traces every secret place, fangs grazing but never hurting—reminding me where I am, who I’m with, how little pretense I have left.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force. He just takes his time, letting me drown inch by inch, until I’m gasping his name—Malachi, God, Malachi—over and over, prayer tangled with gratitude, desperate and grateful and so, so alive.

When I break, it’s not delicate. I shatter—loud, shaking, and wild.

I cry out, head falling back against the pillows. Stars shatter behind my eyes, limbs boneless, breathless. Malachi gentles me down, licking softly through every aftershock, his hands anchoring my shaking legs. Pleasure echoes in my bones, spreading warmth through the hollow behind my ribs.

For a rare, impossible moment, I am both shattered and whole. I’m more myself than I’ve ever dared to be. And as the world falls back into place, all I know is: I’ve never needed anything like I need this man before me.

ChapterTwenty-Three

MALACHI

Her taste ruins me.

It sings in my mouth—sweet and sharp and utterly her. Not just the tang of salt or the electric flash of arousal, but that underlying note of stubbornness, of fire, of the grief she wears like armor beneath her skin. Even here, slick and trembling and flooded with pleasure, she feels like defiance. Blake doesn’t let go easily. Not of control. Not of pride. Not of herself.

Which is why I know what this truly is. Every arch of her hips, every breathless sound ripped from her throat—it’s all deliberate. Her consent is total. Her surrender, a fucking privilege.

And I will never forget it.

I press a final kiss to her inner thigh, then rise slowly, dragging a lingering hand up her soft leg, savoring the shiver that sweeps through her limbs. I watch her expression shift, her pleasure softening into something rattled and undone, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. She’s still recovering—still floating on the edge of bliss, awareness trying to return to a body I’ve already claimed.

I don’t touch her yet. I want to.

But I want this next part even more.

I lean over her, careful not to press down, but close enough for my breath to graze her jaw. “Blake.”

Her eyes flutter open, still dazed—but alert. Curious.

“Do you want to feel everything?” I ask, voice low, the gravity of the moment humming beneath each word.

Her breath catches. “What do you mean?”

I hesitate. Just a second. Then, softly: “I want to feed from you.”

The pause stretches between us. Her gaze searches mine—not frightened, just questioning. And then?—