Wolf’s Blood, Vampire’s Debt #2
“Live for me,” I whispered, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. My breath came in short, sharp pants, my body hovering over his, my thighs straddling his hips.
The stone altar bit into my knees, but I barely felt it. All I could feel was him—the way his cock, half-hard and thickening by the second, pressed against the seam of my leather pants, the way his hips rolled up instinctively, seeking friction.
A growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against my palm. His hands, now steady, gripped my hips, his fingers sinking into the flesh there hard enough to bruise.
“Regina,” he rasped, my name a prayer and a curse. His voice was rough, gravelly, like he’d swallowed broken glass. But his eyes—fuck, his eyes were clear, burning into me with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.
I rocked against him without thinking, my clit throbbing at the pressure, my pussy soaked through the thin layer of my pants.
The scent of my arousal mixed with the copper tang of blood, thick and intoxicating. His nostrils flared, his grip tightening as he pulled me down harder, his hips lifting to meet me.
“You’re mine,” he snarled, the words raw, possessive. His mouth crashed into mine before I could respond, his kiss desperate and filthy, his tongue plunging past my lips like he wanted to consume me.
I moaned into him, my hands tangling in his hair, my nails scoring his scalp. The taste of him—blood and poison and something darkly sweet—flooded my senses.
His teeth nipped my lower lip, drawing a gasp, and I felt the moment his fangs grazed the soft flesh, the threat of a bite making my pulse spike.
“Zephyr,” I panted against his mouth, my hips grinding down, the friction maddening. “Fuck, please—”
He flipped us in one brutal motion, his strength returning in a rush of power that stole my breath.
The stone altar dug into my back as he loomed over me, his body a heavy, trembling weight pinning me down.
His cock, fully hard now, pressed against my stomach, the heat of it branding me even through the layers of fabric.
“You beg so pretty,” he murmured, his lips trailing down my throat, his fangs scraping the sensitive skin. “But you don’t get to come until I say so.”
A whine tore from my throat, my back arching as his teeth sank into the junction of my neck and shoulder—not breaking skin, just holding, the pressure a promise.
His hand slid between us, his fingers finding the button of my pants, popping it open with a sharp snap.
“I can smell how wet you are,” he growled, his breath hot against my ear. “Dripping for me, aren’t you? Even now. Even like this.”
“Yes,” I hissed, my hands clawing at his back, my nails raking down the ridges of his spine. “Fuck, yes—”
His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of my pants, bypassing my underwear entirely, and I cried out as two thick digits plunged into my soaked cunt.
“So tight,” he groaned, his hips jerking against me, his cock leaking pre-cum onto my stomach. “So fucking perfect.”
He curled his fingers inside me, finding that spot that made my vision white out, his thumb pressing hard against my clit.
I came with a broken scream, my body convulsing beneath his, my pussy clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure wrecked me.
He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, his fingers working me through it until I was a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.
Only then did he pull his hand free, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth.
His tongue flicked out, tasting me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Mine,” he repeated, his voice a dark velvet promise.
The chapel was silent but for our ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and blood. My hands shook as I cupped his face, my thumbs brushing the last traces of my blood from his lips.
“What have we done?” I whispered, my voice hoarse, my heart still pounding in time with his.
Zephyr’s lips curved into something slow and knowing, his gaze locked with mine.
The gold in his eyes hadn’t faded. If anything, it burned brighter. “We’ve only just begun,” he murmured, his hips rolling against me again, his cock throbbing against my stomach.
And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that he was right.
He isn't just taking blood. He is taking the fear, the adrenaline, the absolute refusal to let him die. He is drinking my will.
Suddenly, he releases my hand.
He doesn't let go of me, though. He pulls me down.
He crashes his mouth against mine.
It tastes of my own blood and his cold power. It isn't a kiss; it’s a collision of survival instincts. He is starving, not for food, but for life. And I am burning with it.
I kiss him back, fierce and desperate. I straddle his hips, ignoring the hardness of the stone altar beneath his back.
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate every millimeter of space between us.
"Regina," he groans against my lips, his voice a rough vibration that goes straight to my core.
His hands—healed, strong—grip my waist. He slides them up under my torn shirt, his thumbs tracing the line of my ribs, searching for the heat of my skin.
Where he touches, I ignite. The cold of the crypt vanishes, replaced by a fever pitch of desire that makes my head spin.
This isn't logical. We are in a ruin, covered in dirt and blood, hunted by everyone we know.
But the logic doesn't matter. The ledger is gone. There is only this.