Page 39 of Petrify

“Can I do this?” he’s asking again, and before I can answer, he brushes his lips on mine.

The answer would have been yes. It would have beenplease. But I didn’t even need to beg, because he’s pressing his lips to mine, almost hesitantly, like he’s afraid I’ll shove him away, and there’s stubble along his jaw and the maleness of it has me melting.

He pulls away after a second, and I feel his eyes searching my face, his palm pressed against my breast, before he makes us meet again.

I open my mouth to him, and he seems to know what that means. Suddenly he has one knee between mine, his hands coming up to my jaw, holding my face still. His mouth moves against mine with a sudden fervor, those sharp wolf’s-teeth nipping at my lip, his tongue tasting at mine, probing, curious and domineering.

He’s thought about this, some innate part of me understands. He’s wanted this. Probably for a while.

One hand snakes to the hair at my nape, tangling there. He realizes he can move me as he wants, pulling at the strands. It has my back arching at the bright flash of pain, gasping against his lips. The fingers of his other hand grip my jaw, fingers biting into my flesh. Violence hiding just below his surface.

He moves away. “Can I do more?” he asks.

The way he says the words, I know what he wants, I know he wants to go further.

“I—”

I don’t want him to ask, I just want him todo it.

His hand trails from my jaw to my slip. I only wore a thin nightgown tonight, made of little more than a layer of silk. He drags the strap off my shoulder. His fingers trail the slope frommy throat to my chest, down to my arm and back, making a map of my skin to remember later. Then he’s flicking the other strap off too, so my slip is sliding down my middle, exposing my chest to the air.

He untangles his grip from my hair, and I don’t know what he’s doing, still blind in the darkness, until his breath returns, hot against the flesh of my chest. I bite back a moan when his tongue finds my nipple, fisting my hands in the sheets to keep from touching him.

There’s an image in my head, my mind filling the gaps, trying to conjure his face in my head.

My brain cannot fathom that this man is licking me and I don’t even know what he looks like.

His hands wander my body, less gentle, running down my sides to my hips, before he’s pushing up the slip around my waist. Tongue trailing between my breasts, licking at my skin eagerly, trying to find each spot that has me squirming, gasping for air. He takes his time finding each rib under my skin, moving lower, and even lower.

He rips off my panties, face hovering over my bottom half. “What about this?” he whispers, a finger skimming the inside of my thigh. Wandering higher. “Can I do this?”

I know he’s going to find me slick.

He’s going to touch me and find just how deranged I am. Perhaps as unhinged ashim.

Because no one normal would allow this.

“Please—” The argument dies in my throat.

And he moves so maddeningly slowly that I want to buck my hips for the chance that he might brush against me. His long fingers are slightly calloused, spreading me open so he can see.

When he brushes over my clit, this time I really do whimper, overwhelmed by my need and terrified by it at the same time.

His touch is soft, before he’s moving it lower, finding my entrance, and pausing. My arousal is all over his finger already, and he pulls away—and I swear to god that’s him sucking it off his finger—before he’s sliding it inside me, all the way, no warning.

I stifle my cry the best I can.

“You’re so wet,” he says, fascinated.

“Yes,” I whisper back.

He’s not slow, gliding his finger in and out, before he adds another, and when I clench against him, he groans under his breath.

He rips himself away roughly and in my haze of lust, I hear him moving, the sound of fabric rustling, and I don’t have time to think before his shadowy figure is looming over me and the blunt head of his cock is between my legs. I can’t see him, but I feel him, feel the soft, steely weight of him, pressing against my entrance, and my hands come up to his solid chest, twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

Most definitely alive.

My breath is in my throat. “Wait?—”