Page 20 of Cursebound
Except… This doesn’t feel like a dream. Everything is too real, too in the moment. The sign on the wall behind me details the fire safety plan. The rallying point is outside, opposite the lobby of the Grand Bellway Hotel. That’s where I am—or where part of me is, anyway. I’m outside room 809 of the Grand. And every particle of my body tells me that he is inside room 809 of the Grand.
Don’t be shy.The voice speaks directly into my mind.Come on in, bella. Or are you too scared?
It’s his voice—kind of hazy, but still perfectly clear. Nobody ever speaks to me in my visions. I see them, but they don’t see me. It’s a one-way street, and that’s how I like it.
What does this mean? How is he doing this? Is it some kind of Old World vamp trick nobody ever told me about? And did he just call me scared?
To my surprise, I meet no resistance when I twist the handle and open the door. The suite is all traditional charm and chintz, with floral drapes and an over-stuffed couch, a little wooden table holding a delicate teacup and sugar lumps in a tiny bowl. There’s a shard of porcelain on the floor, and I assume that once upon a time there was more than one teacup.
I stroll toward the door that will lead to the bedroom, senses on full alert but amulet still inactive. So either the damn thing is due for service, or I’m not in any danger.
I have the strangest split second as I hover there, caught between the two worlds, safe in my own bed and on the verge of seeing his. In both worlds, I am gripped by a driving curiosity that tells me there is only one way forward.
I open the door.
He is lying on the bed, white sheets tugged down to his hips, covering the bare essentials but showing enough to make my breath hiss. Golden tattooed skin, a ripped torso covered with dark hair that trails in a downward arrow. He stretches languorously, flexing his biceps toward the ceiling with his arms cradling his head. There’s a knowing smile on his face as he watches my reaction. He will have picked up on it all—the sudden spike in my pulse, the throb of need between my legs.
He can see me as well as speak to me. All the rules are being broken, and I feel a heady mix of fear and liberation. This is completely wrong, but it feels perfectly right.
He could have been waiting for me by the door and ambushed me. He could have me pinned down, helpless. He could have killed me. Like I said, all the rules are being broken—if he hurt me here, would it hurt my physical form too?
He hasn’t done any of those things, though. The fact that he is lying there, displaying himself to me, giving me a choice, is a complete mind-fuck. He knows I want him, and he’s giving me the chance to take him. Or is this all some kind of trick? Some kind of power game?
I stay by the doorway, keeping my distance.
“What’s going on? How are you in my head?” I ask, proud that I don’t stumble over my words.
“Wake up. Find me. Then I’ll tell you. Or come to bed, and I’ll show you.” He runs a large hand down his chest, then lower, down toward the sheets. The fabric slides lower. Lower. I am pulled forward, desperate to feel his skin beneath my fingers, burning with an emptiness that I need him to fill.
I sit on the side of the bed and drink in the bulk of his shoulders, the curve of his lips, the look in his silver-ringed eyes. The look that tells me exactly what he wants to do to me.
He sits up, and the sheets pooled in his lap do nothing to hide his arousal. “Touch me,” he commands, his gaze never leaving mine. “Take hold of my cock and feel how hard I am for you.”
Fuck. That body. Those eyes. Is this some kind of charm? Is it even real? I don’t think I care, not when he talks to me in that tone. My life is complicated. Exhausting. I face a million life-and-death decisions every damn day. How good would it feel to let go and do as I’m told for a change? Especially when he’s telling me to do something I already want.
I reach out and lay my hand on the sheets. Hesitant at first, but then I really feel it. God, he’s enormous. Thick and swollen and long. And perfect. My fingers move up and down, and he lets out a puff of breath. I can see the effort it takes for him to stay still as I explore him, his cock getting harder beneath my touch.
The moment his control slips, there is one brief pulse of heat from my amulet. It fades as quickly as it comes, and it is nothing at all compared to the heat in my own body.
He grabs the back of my head, pulls me roughly toward him, and claims my lips with his. It is not soft, gentle, or sensual—it is raw, scary, and thrilling. His tongue invades, and his mouth steals my breath. He pulls away for a moment, swears, and in a move so fast our limbs are a blur, drags me onto the bed.
He climbs on top of me and pins my wrists over my head with one hand. Shadows play across the planes and curves of his face as he stares down at me, his cock pressed hard against me. It hits the sweet spot, and despite the yoga pants I’m wearing, heat builds when he thrusts. Wrapping my legs around his back, I tug him closer and grind on him, wishing my hands were free so I could claw at the muscled expanse of his back. So I could glory in the ripple of sinew as he growls and slams into me.
His mouth moves to my neck, and at first it is nothing but a whisper of lips on my skin. His grip around my wrists tightens, and he goes still, his hips pressed to mine. I take over, desperate to keep that delicious friction building, so close to coming. Zero to sixty in one minute.
“Be still,” he snarls, squeezing my fingers so hard it sends a blast of pain through already tingling nerve endings. “Put your legs down. Do. Not. Move.”
He might as well have told me not to breathe, but I do my best. I tremble underneath him but keep my body flat on the bed.
He trails kisses along my neck, hot and unhurried and so damn good, and expertly grinds into my pussy, making me want to scream. With slow, circular motions, he pushes himself against me, each touch hitting my clit, building up the sensation, keeping me on the edge but never letting me tumble over it.
Keeping me pinned, Luca raises his head from my neck and grins at me in the darkness. It is a feral grin that promises exquisite torture for as long as I can stand it. Using his free hand, he tears my T-shirt from my body and tugs one side of my bra down. He toys with my breast, running those long fingers around the sensitive flesh, squeezing my nipple into a peak, all the while continuing that grinding circular motion.
His mouth closes over my nipple, and sweet Jesus, he sucks on it. I want to grab his hair, urge him on, scratch his skin, scream for him to stop, beg him to carry on. My pussy weeps, wet and empty and clenched. I need him inside me.
“Please,” I murmur as he ravages my breast. “Please…”
All the blood in my body rushes from one zone to another, leaving me lightheaded and bewildered. If I wasn’t already lying down, I’d fall.