“God, Winifred.”
She gathered the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head.
He gasped. Imprinted beneath her collarbone was a section of burned flesh in the shape of a sun. He caressed it with his fingers. The symbol was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before. “Who did this to you?”
She sighed. “My uncle. Years ago. As part of a barbaric family tradition.” She put her hand over his. “You can touch. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Was the man who did this at the wedding?”
She touched the scar. “Yes.”
He growled. “If I had known, he wouldn’t have left this castle alive.”
She twisted her lips. “I almost wish you had killed him.” Then she shifted out of his grip to stand awkwardly on the bed. She untied her drawers and the belt that held her napkin, then let them pool around her ankles.
His heart leaped into his throat. If he’d thought she was beautiful before, now she was radiant. Every part of her was perfect, from the softness of her stomach to the dips of her thighs and the dark thatch covering hermons pubis. He wished he could memorize every curve and wrinkle.
She dug her fingers into her hair and removed a pin. A length of hair unfurled over her shoulders.
His cock ached, but he steadfastly refused to touch it. There was no reason for him to have any further pleasure, beyond what she wished to give him. He shifted his legs to lie on the bed to better enjoy her performance.
She kicked off her slippers, then removed many more pins. They landed with a skittering sound on the floor until her hair formed a cloak around her shoulders. Then she crawled until she was perched above his prone body, her dark hair tickling his skin.
“Touch me,” she said. “Bring me pleasure.”
It was a command he could not disobey. With one swift movement, he flipped them over and lifted her head to his pillows. With her nude body on full display, she reminded him of paintings of Greek goddesses clothed only in their hair, prepared for worship.
And worship he would.
He allowed himself one touch of her soft breasts before her lack of reaction confirmed what she’d said about having no feeling in that area. He shuffled down, tasting every inch of skin until he reached the thatch of curls that covered the part of her he ached for most. Instead of touching her there, he peeled the stocking from her right leg, then gently grasped her big toe in his teeth.
She let out a sharp cry.
He cupped her foot and spread his thumbs in a massaging motion.
She bucked her hips. “Marcus!”
Quite interesting. He could not remember the last time he’d taken a woman to his bed who had such sensitive feet. It was a welcome surprise, as that body part had always held a particular appeal for him. He eagerly took each of her toes in his mouth while easing the stiff muscles in her shins with his hands. With each passing minute, her breathing grew harsher, and her head thrashed on his pillows.
When he judged her prepared for what was to come next, he returned his attention to her quim and pressed two fingers gently betweenher damp folds.
She thrust her hips toward his mouth.
He held her down and rasped her with the flag of his tongue.
“Marcus, please!”
He touched one finger to her entrance, then gently eased inside. She was so tight that it took several minutes of stimulating her clitoris before she relaxed enough that he could add a second finger.
She whimpered.
“I know, dearest,” he said. “I promise the pain will not last long.”
Especially as there was something he could do that a human man could not. He carefully added a third finger, stretching her as gently as possible. Then he withdrew his fangs and pressed the sharp tip of one against her clitoris, just enough to draw a single bead of blood. His jaw ached, but he turned his cheek and let the liquid drip down to the mattress as she shuddered and moaned. The heady scent of her orgasm and the sight of her splayed on his sheets, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, still dripping from where he’d pressed inside her, was too much to bear.
He clasped his cock and stroked himself twice. That was all it took for him to come apart, and in that moment of absolute pleasure, he remembered where he’d seen the symbol burned into her flesh before. It was the sign that had been carved into the side of the village tavern and the emblem of what had once been the most powerful hunter family in Europe.
A family tradition, she’d said. If that was true, then it meant only one thing.
