Chapter 5 Pink Velvet & Vampire Taming
Pink Velvet if anything, it made him seem more dangerous, like a predator who was so secure in his power that he could wear bubblegum velvet and still command the room.
The cloak swept the floor as he moved, swirling around him with the same dramatic flair as the black one, and I realized with a jolt of pure, unfiltered want that I had made a terrible miscalculation.
I'd meant to embarrass him. Instead, I'd made him somehow hotter.
"Lizzie." His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that preceded natural disasters and murder. "Would you care to explain why my cloak is pink?"
I set down my tea with exaggerated care. "I thought it suited you. Brings out your eyes."
His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his temple. "Where is my real cloak?"
"That is a real cloak. I made it myself. Same cut, same shape, same black trim. Just... a more cheerful color palette." I smiled sweetly. "You're welcome."
He crossed the room in three long strides, and suddenly he was right there, looming over me, his silver eyes blazing with barely contained fury.
The pink cloak brushed against my knees.
I could smell him—cedar and spice and that ancient, intoxicating darkness—and my pulse quickened despite my best efforts to appear unfazed.
"You think this is a game," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can waltz into my home, rearrange my furniture, steal my belongings, and mock me to my face."
"I'm not mocking you." I rose to my feet, refusing to let him tower over me.
It didn't work—he was still a head taller—but the gesture mattered.
"I'm improving you. You're so repressed, Darius.
Everything about you is dark and controlled and suffocating.
When was the last time you let yourself feel something that wasn't anger or duty? "
His eyes flashed. "You know nothing about what I feel."
"Then tell me." I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as I invaded his space. "Show me. Or are you too afraid of losing control?"
The air between us crackled. I could feel the weight of his presence, the ancient power coiled beneath his skin, the hunger that he kept so carefully leashed. And beneath it all, something else—something that looked almost like fear.
"You want me to lose control?" His voice was a whisper, rough and dark. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
"I know exactly what I'm asking for." I reached up and touched the collar of the pink cloak, my fingers brushing against the velvet. "I'm asking you to stop pretending you don't want me. I'm asking you to be real with me, just once. I'm asking you to break."
For a long, breathless moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. His silver eyes searched my face, looking for something—deception, maybe, or weakness. Whatever he found there made his expression shift, the careful mask of control cracking just enough to reveal the hunger beneath.
Then he moved.
His hand came up and fisted in my hair, yanking my head back.
His mouth crashed onto mine—not gentle, not tentative, but claiming.
He kissed me like he wanted to devour me, his tongue sweeping past my lips, his teeth grazing my lower lip hard enough to sting.
I moaned into his mouth, my hands gripping the pink velvet of his cloak, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss just as abruptly, his breathing ragged. "You want me to break?" His voice was wrecked, barely controlled. "Fine. But you'll break first."
He shrugged off the pink cloak—I caught a glimpse of it pooling on the floor, a soft pink puddle of velvet—and then his hands were on me, turning me, guiding me toward a small alcove at the far end of the sitting room.
It was barely more than a nook, furnished with a single velvet loveseat and a small side table, hidden from the main room by heavy drapes. Private. Intimate. Perfect.
He sat on the loveseat and pulled me onto his lap, positioning me so I was straddling his thigh. The expensive fabric of his trousers was cool against my bare legs—I'd worn a skirt today, a rare departure from my usual leggings, and I'd never been more grateful for a fashion choice in my life.
"Hands," he commanded, and I offered them without thinking.
He pulled the silk tie from his collar—black, of course, because the man was incapable of wearing any other color—and wound it around my wrists, binding them together with quick, efficient movements.
Then he lifted my bound hands and hooked them over the back of his neck, forcing me to lean into him, my chest pressed against his, my face inches from his.
"You wanted to break my control," he said, his voice a low rumble. "So show me. Show me how desperate you are."
His hands settled on my hips, guiding me, and I realized what he wanted. I was straddling his thigh—just his thigh, the hard muscle pressing against the thin fabric of my underwear—and he wanted me to use it. To grind against him like an animal in heat until I came apart.
"Go on," he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "Ride my thigh. Show me how badly you want this."
My face burned. My whole body burned. But I was past shame, past pride, past anything except the desperate need coiling in my core.
I rolled my hips experimentally, and the friction sent sparks shooting through my nerves.
The rough wool of his trousers scraped against my clit through my soaked underwear, and I gasped, my bound hands tightening behind his neck.
"That's it," he breathed. "Just like that. Take what you need."