The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(20)
Author: Colleen Gleason

Or perhaps she was merely inflicting such a comparison on the moment, as she didn’t generally stop to admire-or criticize-the bodies she normally came in contact with.

"I cannot help but wonder if your silence is due to disappointment or awe," he said, a bit of taut humor in his voice. "I hope it’s the latter that has you dumfounded."

"Oh," Narcise said, her eyes traveling up along tight, muscled calves and impressively sturdy thighs, "I think it is safe to say that Suzette did not exaggerate."

She pulled to her feet, unwilling to remain in such a supine position any longer and, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, stripped off her own breeches and drawers.

His rushing exhale was audible, and when she stood in front of him, as naked as he, the heat in his eyes nearly set her on fire. The chains clinked audibly and she saw the muscles in his arms tighten even more. His c**k twitched enticingly.

"What now?" he said in a dusky voice.

Narcise couldn’t remember the last time her body felt so warm and lush and alive, swelling and throbbing with arousal. Power and desire gave her courage, and she stepped away for a moment, presenting him with her backside as she went over to the array of daggers and whips. The edges of her hair brushed pleasingly over the top of her bu**ocks.

"You’ve vowed not to touch me," she said, picking up one of the finger-length daggers. She remembered this one, remembered the tiny little cuts that had been made all down one side of her torso, little Xs, neatly and carefully so that a delicate patchwork of red had been left. Time to banish that memory. "And you’ve claimed that I can do anything I wish."

"Indeed," Cale replied. His voice, still dark and low, was a bit stronger now. Perhaps a bit wary.

Narcise walked toward him, feeling the hot glow in her eyes and the insistent press of her fangs. She held the slender dagger, sliding her fingers thoughtfully over its hilt. The Devil’s Mark on her own shoulder throbbed and swelled in encouragement.

"Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?" she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.

His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. "You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving-or inflicting-pain on my lovers."

The rumbling sound of those last syllables-my lovers-sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.

And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed. I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.

"Very well," she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.

The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.

Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, the bright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. "Taste," she said, bringing it to his mouth.

He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.

"You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me," she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. "Just taste. Sip."

He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.

Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.

Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster- "Narcise!" he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.

"Not quite yet," she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.

He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic melange of sensation.

Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again, roughly, driven to devour him, to take him all in-taste, scent, touch-singe her tongue to explore those small wounds, the curve of his shoulder and neck, the taste of his skin, salty and hot.

Her bloody hand curved around his c**k and guided it to her, as she lifted on her toes. She raised a leg, settling it around his hips, and he groaned in desperation when he was unable to help steady her, to settle her in the right place, and she felt the tension rippling through his body. But Narcise had an arm around his neck, her ankle curved behind him, opening her legs so that he could fit into her. She was swollen and ready and with one measured thrust, she impaled herself against him.

Cale gave a sharp cry, echoed by her own gasp at the intense, brilliant pleasure. Oh my, oh my…was all she could think as every bit of awareness faded into a ball of heat that expanded as she moved against him, and he thrust smoothly, forcefully against her.

She wrapped her other hand around his neck, too, fairly hanging there, and planted her feet against the wall at his hips so she could leverage herself within the pounding rhythm.