Page 43 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

He tugs on my nipples, sharp and slow.

My hands clench the skirts of my gown.

The dagger at my thigh burns hotter, reminding me of the task at hand and what must be done.

“Those pretty lips,” he murmurs. “They love to talk so much.” His other hand rises, firmly gripping my jaw.

“Use your words, Millicent,” he commands.

The huskiness in my own voice surprises even me.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

His eyes flash, completely consumed with hunger—with something dark—and I’ve only seen glimpses of it before.

Now?

Now it’s staring me down, and my heart won’t stop racing.

“You’re blushing, my little witch.” He pulls my face closer, sweeping his lips over mine but denying contact. “And these perfect tits—they’re throbbing, aren’t they?”

His voice is heat and hunter. It makes the ache worse.

His hand slides to my other breast, fingers toying with the aching bud, matching the same attention he gave the first.

“I wonder, where you would want my mouth first?” The deep, delicious pull in my stomach sinks lower, gathering between my thighs. I hate how responsive I am. I hate that he knows it.

“Inch by inch, I’d devour you,” he growls, his breath hot against my lips. “And still I’d hunger.”

His eyes are molten now, seeming to consume me. “I’d want to start with these lips that never stop mouthing off, just to pull moans from them instead.”

He pinches my nipple; my breath falters, and my traitorous body clenches low.

“Then, I’ll take each of these breasts into my mouth and feast like the starved man I am.”

He leans closer, lips skimming my jaw. “I could be a gentleman—take my time kissing down your body—but I’ve been left to starve far too long.”

The images he conjures in my mind fog my brain further, but the burn of the blade against my thigh fights to keep me here and on track.

He chuckles low, his breath fanning against my ear. “I want to pray before you. Between your thighs. You’re probably soaking for me already, aren’t you, my little witch?”

His hand slides from my beast, tugging my gown lower and exposing my stomach inch by inch. His knuckles brush my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

The soft fabric pools around my hips.

His thumb draws a slow, lazy circle around my navel, and the swirl of heat ignited there blooms downward, until I’m throbbing with it.

“Argue with me, little witch,” he breathes, “like you always do. I love the way you hate me.”

My lips part to try and argue, but no words escape, just soft pants as I suck in air to feed the fire growing in my veins. I want power, I want to own him, and I want to destroy him, but I selfishly want him to cure the ache strengthening between my thighs.

His hand on my jaw tightens.

“Hate me—hate me while I slide my fingers into that sweet little cunt and find out the depth of your loathing. I’ll learn exactly how deep it goes and how much of me you can take.”

His tongue traces the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

I realize then I’m panting—loudly now—drunk on the lust thrumming through my veins.

He pulls back.

Lust and anger are at war on his features, shadowing his silver eyes and tightening his jaw.

I smirk, relishing the effect I have on him. “Do you often think about how sweet I must taste?”

His answer is instant.

“Think? Thinking isn’t enough. I’m far past that.”

His voice is a growl, raw and reverent.

“I imagine it. I dream it. You’ll taste like every dark desire and fantasy I’ve ever had—given flesh.”

He’s trembling now. “Thoughts of you beneath me…they feel like both a blessing and a curse. And I’ll take that curse. I’ll sacrifice myself willingly, just for a taste.”

The moment shatters. Whatever leash he had on himself snaps as he crashes his lips to mine.

It’s not tender. It’s ruinous.

He devours me, starving me of air and thought—of restraint.

His hand slides from my jaw to the nape of my neck, tangling in my curls as he forces my head back. He demands I give him more.

My hands move on their own. I tug on his shirt, urging him closer, deeper.

The cold presence of the Nightmother runs up my spine, a complete contrast to the heat Cage is building in me, reminding me of my purpose here.

His hand skims down, flattening over my stomach, tracing my wrist, and sliding to the curve of my rear. He grips it hard, pulling me forward and onto his lap.

My thighs part; I straddle him as I cling around his hips. The pressure, angle, and heat are all too much but not enough.

He groans into my mouth, kneading my ass roughly and claiming me as his own. The sound rips a moan from my own throat, caught between pain and pleasure.

And I drink in his sweet surrender. His offering. Like a perfect wine, I get drunk on it.

This is no holy prayer. This is a completely selfish one, given to me, and I can’t get enough. And yet—

I will not be his salvation but his damnation. I get lost in it: his mouth, his hands, and the ache blooming between my thighs.

And then she laughs, dripping with malice.

His body. His blood. His body, his blood.

She chants, her voice twisting into something oily and dark as a void.

His lips break from mine only to trail lower, forcing scorched kisses down my throat.

“I’m on my fucking knees at your altar,” he growls against my skin. His words vibrate through me before he nips tender flesh just above my pulse. He soothes it with his tongue and then moves lower, searching and claiming me.

I tilt my head back, dizzy with fire and fury.

My hand reaches behind me, fumbling and remembering.

The dagger.

A reluctant moan escapes me when his devious mouth finally finds my breast, his lips sealing over the aching peak.

A sharp gasp escapes me as his teeth graze, and then his tongue swirls. He sucks harder, hungrily, relentlessly. He searches for more skin to claim with red marks. Another reluctant moan tears free.

The sensation distracts me until the dagger burns in my palm, alive and waiting.

I arch my back with my teeth clenched, telling myself I’m just keeping up the illusion. In the meantime, the throbbing between my thighs becomes a desire, demanding to be satisfied.

Just a reaction, I lie.

His mouth shifts until finding the other breast, tonguing it, and worshipping it with bruising reverence.

I need to move. I need to end this.

When I glance down, I see that his eyes have never left my face.

He watches me, drinks me in. He sucks harder, pulling back from by breast with a wet pop, leaving me exposed, swollen, and panting .

His hands grip my hips—rough, possessive— forcing me to rock against the rock-hard bulge beneath me. Heat flushes down me as the friction sparks through the soaked fabric beneath us.

“I can tell you are aching, my little witch,” he punctuates his words with a harder press against my core. “I will cure your craving.”

“Just one taste,” he growls. “Just one, and you’ll haunt me no more.”

My hand finds his shoulder, bracing and panting through the lust choking at my throat.

The other—dagger in hand—slides behind him. And our eyes lock. I want to see all of it.

I strike.

I drive the blade between two ribs—deep and sure—and then I twist.

The Nightmother’s satisfaction is instant, her approval purring loudly all around me. Yes…yes, little star, bind him. BIND HIM!

Shock flares in his eyes. Then rage explodes, obliterating every shred of lust and desire that had just lived there.

I begin the incantation immediately, one that I know by heart.

And now…he knows.