The Captive and the First Blood Game (Blood Type #2)

Chapter One

“Every breath and every heartbeat and every minute of every day was spent waiting for you,” Reyna whispered against his skin.

His perfect skin. The hard-muscled chest, the cold feel to him, the awareness of his body pressed against hers. She had waited so long for this. So very long.

“Becks,” she said. She ran her hands against his jaw and forced him to look down at her. A bottomless sea of onyx enveloped her. “Say something.”

“I love you,” he said like a prayer.

Her breath caught. She’d waited to hear that for so long.

At her low points, she even tricked herself into believing Beckham had never said those words.

That maybe he had never admitted to being part of the rebel group Elle.

Maybe Beckham had never put all of his trust in her hands only for her to rip it away in one horrifying flight of dizzy terror.

But he had said those words. And she had run out of his penthouse after he had bitten her, only to be kidnapped by Visage.

This was her reality.

Now he was here and saying those words she’d so longed for.

“I love you, too.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. She wanted to feel him, solid and immovable. To know that she couldn’t shake him—that nothing could tear him away from her again.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he brushed it aside with his thumb. “Shh, Little One.”

“I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“You never have reason to doubt me.”

His thumb brushed across her lips as she read hot desire in his eyes. It had been so long since she’d had his hands on her and seen that look cross his face. Her body heated, and a flush suffused her face.

She said the words she’d been dying to say: “I never should have run that night.”

“I know, but you’re here now.”

After that there was no talking. Beckham pushed her backward and onto the bed.

It creaked beneath her weight. She reached out for him, but he ignored her and took her threadbare dress in his hands, ripping it straight down the middle.

She was naked underneath save for a pair of cotton panties, but he looked at her as if she were encased in silk lingerie.

She had been, once. It felt like a million years ago.

At the sight of her, a primal growl escaped his lips.

He shucked his black shirt to the ground and stepped out of the black slacks.

The length of him was visibly hard and bulging against his boxer briefs.

All she wanted was to touch him, to feel him inside of her again—but Beckham was in control.

She’d once quaked under his gaze. Now she was shaking for entirely different reasons as his body covered hers.

His lips closed over her nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

Her back arched off the bed as her hands dug into the sheets.

His hips pressed her down into the mattress, and she felt the full length of him press against her core while his hand kneaded the other breast. She swiveled her hips, wanting the release, wanting everything he would give her.

Then his fangs grazed her nipple and she nearly fell apart.

“Becks,” she moaned.

He just shot her a ruthless smirk as he moved to her other nipple.

Her panties were soaked, and she needed them gone.

As if he read her mind, he slipped his hand under the material and found her wet and wanton.

A feral noise of pleasure breached his lips.

Then he took the thin fabric in his hands and yanked it down her legs.

“Please.” She wasn’t above begging. “I’ve waited so long.”

“I won’t bite you,” he said, his face sliding down between her legs. A fang nipped at the sensitive artery in her inner thigh. “But I bloody well want to.”

Did she even care if he bit her? It would be a relief after what she’d endured. A relief to feel that connection so acutely. She wouldn’t press him this time. She remembered how they’d gotten carried away. He’d taken too much, drunk too deeply, and she’d almost died. They needed to take it slow.

The blood. Not the sex. She needed that right now.

His finger slicked through her wetness and used it to draw circles around her clit. Her fingers dug grooves into the mattress as she vibrated from the sensation. She was so close that she didn’t know if she’d be able to hold out before he was inside of her.

Then his eyes found hers again. That dirty smirk returned as he sped up. “Come for me.”

And she could hold out no longer. Her body contracted and a gasp escaped her as she released at his ministrations. Her body hummed as she came down from the orgasm and watched through hazy, sex-drunk eyes as he removed his boxers.

He took his cock in his hand. He pumped it up and down as he watched her return to earth. “This is my favorite view of you,” he said as he settled back between her legs.

“Fucked?” she asked with a laugh.

He grinned. “Mine.”

Then with one powerful thrust, he seated himself to the hilt within her. She cried out. Despite her prior orgasm, she was still tight, and he stretched her to the max. No warning or preamble, just his cock inside of her, filling her to completion.

Her walls clenched around him as he slowly pulled out and then quickly drove inward. Once, twice, three times. Each pull brought her right back to that razor-thin edge she had been hovering on earlier. Even though she had just come, her body was primed and desperate for him.

“Ready for me again already?” he asked.

“So close,” she admitted as he bottomed out in her again and a wave of pleasure shot through her core. “So very close.”

“Not yet,” he commanded.

She forced herself to hold back even as he drove into her again and again. She could wait. Oh God, she could wait.

Then his rhythm changed from methodical to relentless. He set his own course to owning and claiming her body. Reclaiming everything that they’d lost in his one moment of weakness. In her one moment of panic.

She could see in his eyes what that loss had cost him. The toll it had taken on him, how he would never forgive himself for giving in to his urges, for finally relinquishing control. His eyes said he’d never do it again. In them was a promise.

“Becks, come with me,” she cried, finally reaching for that strong jaw to bring his lips down to hers for one more kiss.

Their lips collided as he owned her body where he refused to own her blood. Taking everything she would give him but not everything he wanted. Not everything she wanted.

Their eyes met, both so close. She was on the precipice and knew they would finish together.

…

Reyna woke up screaming.

She jolted upright in her plush king-size bed with its too many pillows and too much softness. Her hair was plastered to her face. Sweat coated her body, soaking through the thin white shirt she’d worn to bed.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and she looked around the small room. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed. Not a damn thing.

Beckham wasn’t here.

It had been a dream. A sick dream. A desperate, horrible dream.

Her hand moved to her cotton panties and found the slick wetness was real. The ache still building in her lower half from lack of release. The aftereffects of the dream.

It had felt so real. So very real. She had felt him moving inside of her. She had seen the love in his eyes. She had known his remorse.

That was her imagination at work. Conjuring his face just to torture her with his absence. She ached to see him one more time, to remember the feel of his body and the love in his eyes, only to twist the knife deeper when she remembered that he hadn’t found her and she hadn’t escaped.

It had been fifty-five days since she’d last seen his face. Reyna made a mark in the notebook next to the bed.

Fifty-six.