Chapter 20
His leman’s touch was a brand even through layers of cloth; her pulse galloped along, sweet thunder.
Lukas had barely enough presence of mind to set the seals, remaining immobile as her lips touched his.
That slight contact burned as well, thick sugary fire spilling through every blood-channel as her scent wrapped him in a drugging cloud.
So incandescently beautiful, and willingly touching him—she pressed a little harder, and he could do nothing but respond.
Gently, though. Hardly able to move for fear of frightening shy, recalcitrant prey.
The thrall woke, arousal a clawed steel bar at the very root of his being.
At the bottom of consciousness, the animal who prioritized survival was unbreathing, unblinking, still as a frozen rock.
It gloried in the paired sensations—the small slim hand against his heartbeat, the mouth teasing at his own.
The faint tang of his blood upon her tongue was even more enticing, if that were possible.
She explored rather tentatively, perhaps afraid of his true teeth slipping control. Lukas could barely believe this sudden turn; he had expected more wild veering between fear and defiance, perhaps another attempt at self-harm or panic-struck escape.
Not this. Never this.
The center, the very omphalos of the universe drew closer, her free hand meeting his shoulder, skimming upward, curving at his nape. Delicate fingers, pressing so gently—he needed only the slightest of pressure to obey, leaning into her.
But she retreated, and he froze again. Agonizing, the bare inch between her lips and his own, even if he could drink the nectar of her breath.
“Lukas?” A tantalizing whisper, his mortal name wonderfully altered with her charming, so-modern accent. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” He could barely remember which language to plead in.
Never. Don’t. If he moved, if he so much as exhaled wrongly, she might take flight.
He would pursue, he would have her again.
..but he very much wanted to see what she intended.
The longing was a spear in his chest, a blade so keen it did not hurt at first strike, and he drowned in sensation his numbed, calcified former self had never dreamed possible.
“Okay.” A light, brushing kiss, not nearly enough. “But I want something different this time. Can I have it?”
So she grasped, in some way, how helpless he was against her. “Yes.” And those incredible, dizzying words—this time.
She rewarded him with another kiss, now much less uncertain, and her lovely live weight settled in his lap.
Her knees to either side of his hips, her hand on his chest suddenly free because the fabric between them was intensely irritating, so his claws sprang loose to shear the obstructions away.
The Gift was in her, strengthening and changing; stronger than a mortal now, yet still so delicate.
She would never reach even an elder’s strength or speed; leman did not need such things.
A sweet torment, to wait for what she wanted. She gasped as her shirt was stripped; he crushed her against him, his mouth working hungrily, and almost broke when she wriggled as if to escape.
“Mh. Here.” She freed her mouth long enough to whisper again, and her frail fingers pushed at his hands, settling them on the sweet curves of her hips.
Still so thin, she needed much more care and feeding—the thrall leapt at the thought, magma filling his bones, and the struggle to keep his fangs contained was far more severe than refraining from the glut.
More mothwing-soft brushes, directing him. He spilled onto his back, every moment of the fall syrup-slow to keep her mouth on his, her slight softness draped across him now, more cloth tearing as he freed them both of any encumbrance.
The kiss grew bolder, though she still retreated restlessly unless his hands stayed where she wanted them—he could caress, though, kneading as she settled, having finally placed her suitor precisely where she wished.
Above him she lingered, the silken mass of her hair tumbling loose, the soft velvet furnace of her core lingering just at the tip of his aching, begging shaft.
Her mouth drew away; he longed to keep her.
But her lovely seashell hips beckoned, filling his grasp, and she slid with exquisite slowness—down, and down, inch by inch-fraction, closing him in searing, honeyed fire.
Her head tipping back, a slight toss of her mane as her teeth caught her lower lip, his leman’s face closed and serene.
He was begging, Lukas realized, in every language he had ever known. The words vanished into the thrall’s purr, a warning and anticipation all at once.
Beatrice straightened, her thighs flexing beautifully...then settled all at once, impaling herself upon her sanguinant.
The thrall took him, his body a tight-strung bow touched with a single divine fingertip.
She moved, answering his desire almost before it arose, guided by the subtle shift of his fingers as he held to her satin firmness.
Faster, her breath quickening, choosing the angle which most suited her as she pleased herself as well, using him as a tool, an instrument of her own desire.
Watching from under half-closed lids—for she had pushed herself upright, too short to kiss him if she wished to retain this particular rhythm and direction—as his own shape shifted, the secondary prong searching for the most sensitive nubbin high at the crest of Paradise as she suddenly twisted, engulfing him afresh, the movement bowing him once more as he thrust upward, desperate to reach still deeper.
More teasing, or she was still uncertain.
..but no. A sweet, husky, stuttering moan as she stilled, and he could watch the rosy flush of raw sensuality flood her skin, lush mouth slack as her head tipped back, shudders wringing him dry.
His own release burst free, shaking her as well, until she sighed and folded down, coming to rest against him lightly as a leaf, her forehead tucked under his chin.
Miracle. A miracle.
Even if he knew she was still unresigned, even if he suspected she thought to seduce in order to discover a means of escape, he would take it. He would, Lukas discovered, take anything she offered, and more.