Page 30 of Savage Thirst

The third lands with more force, sharper. My hips jolt against his thigh, breath hitching. The burn spreads across my skin, an echo that sinks deep.

I should hate this. I should fight it.

But I don't.

I clutch the sheets tighter, every nerve lit up and focused on him—on the weight of his palm, the heat of his thigh under my belly, the way his other hand rests against my spine, keeping me in place with just enough pressure to remind me that he's stronger.

Crack.

A choked gasp I can't bite back escapes me. My body arches, pressing back into his hand even as fire licks across my skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and intoxicating. His palm smooths over the tender skin he just punished, and my body shudders from the contrast of gentleness. "So responsive. Maybe I should keep going until you're dripping with regret… or something else."

I shake my head. "That's not… true," I murmur, not even sure why I say it. The words slip out on instinct, too soft to carry weight.

"Really?" he murmurs, and then—

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three in a row, sharp and deliberate. I gasp, the sound torn from my throat, my body trembling as sensation crashes through me like a wave—sting, burn, ache, need.

"Are you trying to lie to me…"

Crack.

"…or to yourself?" His voice rumbles like thunder in my ear.

Then his fingers trail a little lower, just enough to make me jolt. With a slow motion, he shows me how slick my inner thighs are with the heat that has built between them.

He chuckles wickedly. "Tell me, sunshine," he drawls, dragging the nickname out. "Is this still your preferred option? Or have we found a third choice somewhere…?

I don't answer. Can't.

I've slipped into a space I don't recognize—somewhere between resistance and surrender, punishment and craving. I glance back at him, breathless, my body flushed and humming, my pride barely hanging on by a thread.

He spins me in his lap, pulls me against him. My bare thighs straddle his. I feel the ache of my punished skin pressing against the fabric of his sweatpants. His grip is firm, fingers splayed possessively over my hips, his arousal hard and pulsing beneath me.

"Just say the word…," he breathes, his lips grazing my jaw, his voice the devil's lullaby. "One word, and I'll give you exactly what you need. What we both need."

It would be so easy… so ruinously easy.

But…

"I…" The word is torn from my lips, fragile, trembling. "No."

He stiffens. His jaw tenses, grip loosens.

"Why?" he asks, not angry but quiet and honest. Like the question matters more than he wants it to.

I force myself to meet his eyes, to suppress the ache spiraling inside me. I say it with cold detachment: "Because vampires are repulsive dead husks."

Not my words. Words I was taught. Ones I dig out now like armor.

Something flickers across his face, but it's gone too fast to catch. Then he lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. "Of course we are. That's what makes it more fun."

He stands abruptly and deposits me on the floor like I'm weightless.

"Run back to your room, nymph," he says, voice all mockery now, sharp enough to cut. "Before my filth rubs off on your holy little self."