Page 71 of A Betrothal So Bloody

His hand trails down my leg, strong fingers spread over the sensitive skin. His thumb brushes my entrance reverently, pulling a sharp gasp out of me.

“And seven hells, you’re wet,” he murmurs. “Already dripping for me. Fuck, Ariya.” Dante shudders out his next exhale, his crooked grin breathless and untethered—that barely contained restraint flashing again.

“Keep telling me what feels good,” he says. The raw, dark need on his features mirrors my own desperation.

I nod.

Say my name again, I beg silently. Say it until I’m sick of it.

Another brush of his hand over my clit, and I seize up, breathing shallowly as the sensation seizes me like lightning. I grind my teeth to keep from crying out from that alone.

“Have you touched yourself before?” Dante asks, his deep voice suddenly clipped.

I catch his eye, hesitating. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

The command sends a shock through me, but I obey, putting my hand between my legs the way I’d done in the blanketing darkness of my dormitory past midnight, when everyone else was asleep. But for the first time in my life, there’s no need to be quiet.

I throw my head back, working myself while Dante watches. The feeling of his stare burning into me sets the heat in me fully ablaze—that flash of approving appraisal, that impatient clench to his jaw.

I’m driving him crazy. Me.

He palms the side of my ass roughly while the other hand thrusts down the front of his pants to relieve some of the tension there, accompanied by a sharp groan through his teeth.

That spark of masochistic delight shoots through me again—pleasing him. Fuck, I’m sicker than I thought.

Dante lasts only a few minutes before he backs off the bed, standing at the foot of it. He hooks his arms under my knees and yanks me to the edge, eliciting a yelp of surprise at how easily he moves me—like he’s just relocating a little coin purse. I’m dizzy with anticipation as Dante lowers onto his knees, hands tight on my thighs as though it was physically painful for him to wait even a breath longer to devour me anew.

Impatient as ever. Though, this time I have no complaints.

His tongue drags along my inner thighs, peppering feather-light kisses and gentle bites in his path. My entire body clenches again, moaning out a pathetic little noise. I’m so fucking sensitive there, I’m practically seeing stars. He’s teasing me, circling my clit—giving me everything but what I really want, what I’m waiting for. I squirm, hands fisting the quilt, but his arms tighten around my thighs, forcing my patience.

“Dante…” I breathe out, a frustrated whine.

His chuckle rumbling between my legs nearly melts me. Then his tongue finally enters me, and I think my soul just about leaves my body. Nothing I’ve ever done to myself compares—not by miles.

“Oh—fuck!” I arch my back, his tongue moving along me with hot, skillful strokes.

I’m not sure the rain is enough to mask the noises that escape me this time.

Dante’s bruising grip can’t contain my writhing hips, and soon, I’m almost riding his face. I tangle a hand into his messy blond hair, gripping tight. I think of all the desiring glances I’ve seen people cast toward Dante as we’ve traveled, wanting him, imagining what it would be like.

But it’s me. He chose me, and tonight, he is completely mine.

And I’m his, I realize with another feverish exhale.

Dante releases his iron grip on my left leg, and his fingers join his mouth in sudden, delicate tandem. I lose words for a moment, staring up at the curtained ceiling of the four-poster bed. The raw, novel sensations entwining within me send bursts of sharp pleasure through me, almost painful in the ecstasy.

Can you die from pleasure? A ridiculous thought—yet at this moment, I feel like it bears merit.

A climax is mounting, hovering just overhead—but Dante pulls off me.

I nearly weep.

“Please…” I whine, barely recognizing the shiver to my own voice.

Dante leans over me, hand tangling into my hair, kissing me roughly.