Page 58 of Inked & Bloodbound

Neither of us has spoken a single word since the car, because we’ve said all we need to, but our psychic connection is too powerful to resist, so I reach out into the void and find her.

I need to taste you.

I hear her laugh, but her lips don’t move.

Okay, Cass. Then taste me.

Still naked, I lift her from the ground, and her legs automatically curl around my waist. The fabric of her long, flowing skirt bunches up around her hips, and I grip her thighs hard enough she’ll probably have a trail of little purple fingertip bruises in the morning. The thought of leaving a mark sends a sick jolt of satisfaction to my core. I want her to feel it and think about me.

She gasps, nails digging lines across my shoulders, and her head falls back against the door with a gentle thunk.

I awkwardly turn and shuffle us over to the stairs, taking little steps because my pants are still around my ankles. The sound of my jeans dragging against the ground blends with her giggles, and the ridiculousness of it punctures the sexual tension.

I lay her on the stairs and hook her trembling knees over my shoulders, hiking her skirt up higher to reveal the strong thighs beneath. When I lower my mouth to kiss them, it’s like she’s already on the brink.

I hook my fingers under the lace edge of her underwear and slowly pull them down her thighs, and she reacts to the cold air touching the most intimate part of her with a shiver.

She props herself up on her elbows and watches me with an amused curiosity as I gently lick and trace the lines of her veins with my tongue. Her blood courses tantalizingly close, just millimeters under the surface, and I follow the path higher and higher. Thesensation causes her to throw her head back and wail, her fingers tangling in my hair and running along my scalp.

I reach up to her neck and prop her lolling head up, tilting her to watch me. Meeting her eyes and studying her blown pupils and the curious way her canine tugs at the corner of her lip.

My mouth hovers inches away from the warm center of her. I want to make her lose control, to tumble off whatever edge she’s clinging to. I want her to beg for it. I want to hear my name in a breathless, desperate voice.

Do you want me to kiss your micetta, amore?

Yes.

Beg me.

Please, please, please.

Good girl. Let me hear it one more time.

Please.

Then I do. One soft, reverent kiss at first, just to hear how she shudders, and then my tongue—slow, insistent circles that make her groan and claw at my scalp.

Blood drums in her femoral, heat radiating outward—if I let myself, I could bite her right here, quick and sharp, but I don’t. I focus. I savor. She writhes, her heels digging into my back, fingers twisting in my hair until it almost hurts. Maybe she wants it to.

You are so delicious, fiorellina.I whisper through our bond.

The tension builds in her hips and thighs, her whole body trying to arch even closer to my mouth, tremors gathering like the static before a storm. She tastes like the sweetest nectar I’ve ever had, and the essence of her mingles with the dark copper richness of her blood rushing just beneath the thinnest skin.

This is where you live now. Under my tongue, in my thoughts, in my blood.

I reach a hand between my legs and stroke myself in careful time with her rising moans. I want to drag this out, forever if I can, to burn every second of it into my memory so that nothing else compares. I want to feel her shake apart on my tongue. Her voice drifts to me, between pants and gasps.

A little more pressure. That’s it. Fuck. Right there.

She’s commanding me now, and I’m a loyal and faithful servant, a thing built to serve and please her. I groan against her, the vibration making her buck and nearly come off the stair, but I hold her in place and double down. My hands are strong enough to bend steel, more than strong enough to pin her hips until she’s thrashing and on the edge of crying out. I back off, just enough to make her whine, then take her right to the brink again.

My hand speeds up, working myself into a feverish mess. I know I should stop, but I can’t help myself, so consumed by her and the heavenly symphony between her thighs. I pull at myself desperately, filtering the pulse of my own lust through the taste of her, every flick a call to some base instinct that howls for her. I groan against her, my sounds muffled by her grinding her hips into my lips.

Her voice pulses through me. Wait, not yet.

But I can’t wait. Without warning, I explode in my hand, hot and wild, and wild as I am, painting her calves and the step below with a spend so intense my toes curl and my fangs ache at the edges of my gums.

The force of it cracks my vision for a second—a burst of color and static—and I nearly lose my grip, but I don’t stop, won’t stop, not until she’s writhing and gasping and tearing at me.