Iona #2
My knees buckle against the fountain.
He keeps me up with one hand.
“Again,” I breathe.
He does not.
Instead he turns me to face him.
His mouth is wet. Both fangs are bare. His shoulder still bears the crescent of my nails from our last night together.
He grips the torn back of my gown and pulls me close.
“Run.”
I stare at him.
His fingers open.
For one heartbeat I do not understand.
Then I wrench away.
He lets me.
The release is worse than the capture.
I stumble, recover, and run toward the rose walk with my gown hanging open behind me.
He gives me ten steps.
Perhaps twelve.
Then he comes after me for real.
I hear claws strike gravel.
One breath behind.
Another closer.
The hedge shakes as he takes the corner without slowing.
I run hard enough that the garden blurs. My lungs burn. My torn gown slips from one shoulder. The mark he left throbs with every stride.
He could catch me at any moment.
He does not.
He stays close enough that I feel his heat at my back, then falls away, then appears at my side beyond the hedge. Each time I change direction, his footsteps close behind me and cut off the safer turn. He is driving me. Not toward the wall.
Toward the orchard court.
The dark opening waits ahead. He has driven me past the last branch of the yew walk and closed every turn except the orchard court. I knew the destination. I did not understand how completely he would take the choice of route away.
He is behind me now, close enough that the next breath touches my torn gown.
I turn.
His hand closes around my ankle.
The ground disappears.
I hit his cloak, not stone.
The cloak he promised lies beneath me. The realization lasts less than a heartbeat before he is over me.
One hand pins both wrists above my head. One knee spreads my thighs. His claws frame my skin, points sunk into the wool beneath me.
I fight.
Not prettily.
I twist, buck, try to bring my knee between us. He catches it with his free hand and forces it wide.
My body opens under him.
His scent is everywhere. Iron, winter, sweat, and the thick dark note that means the old blood has taken the lead.
He lowers his face to mine.
“Say it.”
“Hold.”
Everything stops.
His claws remain buried in the cloak. His weight stays above me without pressing down. The black in his eyes thins enough for gray to show.
“What do you need?”
“Look at me.”
He does.
I catch one horn and pull him closer.
“Continue.”
“How far?”
“All the way.”
The old voice returns.
“Then fight.”
His claws slide out and sink into the cloak around my head.
“Fight.”
I do.
He takes my wrists again. Pins them harder. Uses his weight until every useless movement rubs me against the ridge of his thigh.
I stop trying to escape and start trying to get closer.
He notices.
A rough sound leaves him.
His mouth closes over mine.
There is nothing careful in the kiss. He keeps his jaw turned so the fangs stay clear, but his lips bruise, his tongue takes, and his free hand tears the front of my gown open to the waist.
The night hits my bare breasts.
He covers one with his hand. Claws curved around the flesh without touching it. Thumb dragging over the nipple until I arch.
“Still want the court to see?”
“Yes.”
His mouth drops.
He sucks hard enough to leave color. Then harder. He turns his jaw, keeps the fangs outside the flesh, and closes his back teeth around the fullness beneath my nipple.
The pain pulls a cry out of me.
He releases, licks the mark, and moves to the other breast.
I pull against his grip until my shoulders ache.
“Hands,” I gasp.
He frees them.
I grab both horns.
His whole body drives down against mine.
“That,” he says, voice broken around the word, “was not permission.”
“It is now.”
I drag my palms over the rough bases.
He shudders. His hips grind once between my thighs, hard enough that I feel the shape of him through his trousers.
Then he rises onto his knees and cuts my drawers away with one claw.
The claw never touches skin.
Cool air reaches me.
His hand follows. Two fingers slide through the wetness he has been smelling since the armory.
His eyes close.
“Mine to hunt.”
“Tonight.”
His gaze opens.
“Because you chose.”
“Yes.”
He puts those fingers inside me.
No teasing. No slow test. I am ready and he knows exactly how much. He works me with hard, sure strokes, thumb against me, his other hand holding my hip to the cloak.
I try to close my legs.
His knee keeps them spread.
“Stay open.”
My body clenches around his fingers.
The command goes through me faster than touch.
He hears the change in my breath. Smells the new rush of heat.
“Look at me.”
I do.
He brings me to the edge while watching my face. Stops there.
I make a sound that has no dignity in it.
“Please.”
“What?”
“You know.”
His fingers curl.
“Say it.”
“Make me come.”
He does.
Hard enough that my back lifts off the cloak. His hand covers my mouth too late to hide the cry. The orgasm rolls through me in sharp pulses around his fingers while he watches every one.
He does not give me time to settle.
He turns me over.
My cheek presses into his cloak. He draws my hips up and spreads my knees with one foot.
A claw traces the outside of my other thigh. Another shallow line. The sting makes me push back.
He smells the reaction and growls.
His hands close around my hips.
“Tell me what you want.”
There are no diplomatic sentences left.
“You. Hard.”
He frees himself.