Page 28 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

His arrival is a lightning strike.

Electric. Dangerous. Tempting.

I open my eyes and turn my head, finding him there.

Staring.

Thatcher leans against my door, arms crossed in front of his bare chest. My heart pulses all the way to my toes.

“How pitiful.” His voice is steady and passive, unaffected by the sight in front of him. But his stare, even in the darkness, is anything but passive.

Thatcher’s eyes are always sharp, always studying his surroundings as if waiting for something to happen. What that is? Who knows. But he’s always watching, and right now, that razor-edged gaze is on only me, slicing me to pieces as he takes his time tracing the lines of my body. Up, then back down, pausing at the apex of my thighs before traveling back up.

A shiver bolts down my spine, and the place between my thighs quivers. I wet my dry lips with my tongue. Those dark slacks rest wickedly low on his hips, unfairly showing off the two shallow grooves that run diagonally into his pants.

He’s marble made, sculpted, and carved with brutal strokes but still somehow carrying the soft tenderness of a human.

My fingers curl into the blanket as I scramble off the pillow and press myself into the opposite wall with my knees against my chest. But unfortunately, my heart isn’t the only thing that calls for him, not anymore.

My pussy screams for him, knowing he’s the only one who can satisfy her, the only one she wants.

“What are you doing?” I huff, swatting at my damp curls to tame the frizz.

“I was trying to sleep,” he says, pushing off the door. “Which is impossible with all the noise coming from your room.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks.

“I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t realize your bed was thumping against the wall? Or that you were practically in my ear with those deprived moans?” A smirk appears just before he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “I’m disappointed, pet. I was hoping to find a man between those pale thighs. I’ve been itching to kill something.”

An image pixelates behind my eyes.

A taboo portrait of a disturbingly erotic fantasy I’d never speak out loud.

My knees knock together as I squeeze them towards one another, my heart banging against my rib cage. The heat between my legs has grown unbearable since his arrival.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” His grin is a threat.

My favorite kind of warning.

He walks forward, delving into the depths of my mind without my permission.

“What I would do if I caught another man touching you. Are you picturing me slicing him to pieces while he begs for his life? How I would make him apologize to me for ever laying his eyes on you. For stupidly thinking you belonged to anyone but me, pet.”

I swallow roughly, digging my fingers into my legs as I shake my head, denying the truth for my sanity. Needing him to stop because I hate myself a little more every second. Knowing his words are causing the rush of warm arousal to leak down my inner thighs.

When his knees bump against the edge of the bed, I look up at him.

Thatcher looms, veiled by the night. A tower of regal destruction and the center of my pleasure. It’s an alarming delusion we’ve created. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t bring myself to care when it feels this good.

Regardless of how heinous it may be.

“Or is it the aftermath you crave?” He plants a knee on the bed, his strong thighs flexing. My mattress groans with the weight of him. “When I shove my fingers into that pretty cunt of yours while he bleeds out? He’ll die hearing you scream my name. Take his very last breath just as your whiny little pussy clenches around my cock.”

The moonlight throws a silver hue across the harsh angles of his face, putting that volatile gaze on display for me. One wrong move and we will be stripped of our base instincts.

Prey and predator.