Page 23 of Ma Petite Mort

That’s worship.

The crowd? Oh, they’re losing it.

Someone claps. Someone moans. Someone chants my name like it’s carved into their ribs.

Indie catches my eye and gives me a wink, her whip dragging slowly across some girl’s inner thigh while the poor thing cries and thanks her for it.

But me?

I don’t see any of them.

I only see him.

Only feel him—heat, hunger, the violence simmering just under his skin like thunder waiting for permission to strike.

I pull off with a wet gasp, chin slick, and breath ragged.

“They’re all watching,” I purr, licking him like he’s candy dipped in sin. “Getting off on you getting off on me.”

“Let them,” he growls, low and brutal. “Let them see who you belong to.”

I smile, wide and wicked. Then take him again.

I rock my hips against the floor, thighs clenched, body singing. If I could come just from this, I would. Hell, maybe I already am.

His fingers tangle in my hair again, tighter now, possessive. That rough, Viking grip that makes my spine arch and my stomach twist.

I’ve got blood on my tongue, spit on my chin, and his name etched into my bones.

And gods help me?—

I never want to leave this place.

“You want to be good for me?” he rasps, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

I nod. Big eyes. Swollen lips. Devoted little monster.

“Then make it unforgettable,” he snaps. “Make the gods jealous.”

I do.

I give him everything.

And then?—

His breath catches. That shift. That edge in his voice.

“Behind you,” he mutters. “Don’t move.”

I freeze.

Because I know that tone.

I know it like I know the runes carved into his flesh.

Danger.

Not for me—no. Never me.