Page 156 of Hunted

The one clean rule in all this darkness.

I lick my lower lip and revel in the jump of his thick shaft against my belly.

My voice shakes, but it’s mine. ‘Yes. With fangs.’

His fangs descend before the words have fallen from my lips, digging into the flesh of his lower lip.

And they’re… beautiful, terrifying, and utterly real.

He passes his tongue lazily over them, as if already savouring the moment they sink into my flesh, and Gods, the sight of tongue and teeth push slickness between my thighs.

Slickness he smells and groans at before his heads descends. ‘Can’t wait to eat you out again, cacciatrice. Netheris fires, but I’m losing count of the very many things I plan to do to you. Things I guarantee you will enjoy immensely.’

‘Ah, there’s that unsullied smugness again. Good thing I now know how good a kisser you are. So how about you put that excellent mouth to good use, Don Moretti?’

A punch of laughter barks from him.

Then he’s kissing my throat first, just below my jaw, softening me, tasting skin, making me arch into him with a helpless sound. His hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back then to the side with perfect control. Exposing my neck and the very centre of my vulnerability.

Then the long lick, like I’m salt to his pre-tequila blood shot.

And hell, even that faintest graze of his teeth when he licks me is beyond blissful.

Valentin makes a low sound against my bare throat, like a groan dragged out of a creature who doesn’t groan for anyone.

Iron arms hold me upright, and I feel the pull of it – his hunger and mine tangling together, my blood calling to him and his beast answering.

It’s intimate in a way I’m uncertain that sex will even touch; terrifying in the way truth is terrifying.

And somewhere inside it, a craving sparks – wild, reciprocal, wanting more than just being taken.

I clutch at him, nails biting his shoulders, and he pulls back just enough to look at my face, fangs still visible, face stark with otherworldly hunter.

‘Eira,’ he says, voice wrecked. Like he cannot find the words for whatever he’s feeling.

I barely recognise the sound I make. ‘Don’t… don’t look at me like that.’

‘How else,’ he whispers, ‘am I meant to look at you?’

Then he lifts me before I can respond. Carries me to the bed like I’m something precious and doomed.

Lays me down with a reverence that makes my throat tighten again.

He strips me of every last layer of leather and lace, kissing each new inch of skin as it’s revealed, mapping me into memory. My hands fumble at him, desperate, impatient, and he catches my wrists and kisses my knuckles.

‘Easy,’ he murmurs. ‘I will not rush our first time.’

My breath catches. ‘You—’ I barely stop myself.

Our. Not your.

He looks up. ‘Yes? What is it, Eira?’

He doesn’t know. And I should probably tell him. Should be mortified at the confession that sits on my tongue because society is a giant asshole that would judge a woman for not getting dicked down at the grand old age of twenty-four.

But fuck society if this feeling of being seen like this makes something in my chest ache. Makes me feel powerful and proud and hell, euphoric that I waited to do this with him.

I shake my head and say nothing because the words feel too thick, too emotional to spill.