Page 85 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I almost wince at the truth in my own words. But there’s no going back, and I don’t want to.

I look down at my own body—seeing it through his eyes. The water laps around our thighs, casting refractions of shifting light over our skin. Each of us have brutal beauty on our own—but together, we’re fucking magnificent.

I trace my eyes over him next—taking in every line and angle that forge his ruthless, exquisite body.

“Sometimes you look at me like you’ve never seen a male at all,” Dante murmurs, curious despite the lopsided grin aimed my way.

“Well, hardly. Never without a tunic on.”

“Really?” Even with what he knows of Corvus, he’s still capable of gentle surprise at this—brows pinching, eyes bright.

I skate my hands up his chest, shaking my head. “And certainly not the depraved positions we were in last night.”

We share a tender snicker, only for mine to sour into an outraged blush as his grin turns insufferably proud. Me, it seems to say. I made it before all those other fuckers.

I punch his arm. “Don’t look so damn smug about it!”

“Not be proud of claiming you? Imprinting on these angel eyes? You ask the impossible.” Dante’s voice is a gravelly murmur—rough and warm in a way that makes my chest swell.

At risk of fanning his flame, my smile softens. “I never knew half the things I’ve felt in the last day alone,” I confess—as though he didn’t know already. “Like this—”

I pluck at my left nipple, rolling it into a stiff peak. The motion sends a wave of sensation straight into my belly—the kind of touch I had never thought to pursue on myself in the dormitories. I glance at his face and find his eyes glazed with desire.

“Allow me,” Dante says huskily, palming my breast. His hand is large enough to cup it entirely. His calloused palm grifts over the tender skin, massaging me.

He mimics my prior motion on both nipples with finesse even I couldn’t achieve. A century of practice, I think, only a little sour at the reminder. And then he dips his head, pressing his mouth to the nipple and sucks—hard.

“Oh, fuck,” and just like that, my voice is reduced to a whimper.

His fangs tease me before he finally pulls back, seeming to enjoy my little jump of surprise. I’m losing what’s left of my sanity—I can feel it slipping away. Losing myself in this moment, in my own selfish desire for more.

I lower myself, licking from his shaft to his collarbone and back down again, peppering reverent kisses between. I steal a glance up through my lashes at him—drinking in the way his eyes flutter shut with a groan.

Maybe I’m good at this. Or are all men this easily excitable?

As I start to stand once more, a sudden pressure lays over my shoulder, pushing me back down. I look up sharply. The firm hand resting on me is a request—but a searing one, given the look on Dante’s face.

The water laps at my chest now, putting me nose to nose with his arousal. He’s studying me with predatory intensity, but once again I’m stunned to read worry knotted behind the lust. He cares what I think of him, of this—a devastating amount, apparently. If I were to give my head the slightest shake in protest, he would release me.

And it’s this thought that has me melting, leaning my cheek against his arm.

With painstaking care, Dante puts my hand on his cock. His erection gives a twitch of anticipation under our joint grasp. He shows me the pressure he wants before removing his hand and combing it back through my hair. I feel like a leashed pet—but a beloved one, I suppose.

“Open your mouth, darling,” he says, that resonant, velvet decibel that I’m certain has led hundreds of souls to their doom. “Tongue out.”

My stomach knots, a quiet jolt cutting through me. I’d pressed bold kisses to his cock once or twice last night, but to take it fully into my mouth... It was intimidating to say the least. I’m still viciously sore in the last area he’d sheathed it.

But I do it. I open my mouth, letting my tongue hang waiting past my lower lip. My cheeks burn at the vulnerability of it, but I’m too curious, too hungry to refuse.

And not when this might be our last night together and my last taste of him altogether.

With a roll of his hips, the head slides across my tongue. There’s already a little wetness there that blends with the taste of crisp water—saltiness and skin. Dante shudders, head tipping back against the tree trunk.

The next slide is sloppier, grazing across my lips and cheek. And then, with a seed of intuition, I open my mouth wider and allow him in.

Dante gives a deep groan, unraveled. He pumps—slowly at first, then picks up. My free hand flies up to grasp his hip, steadying myself while still working the base of him with my other hand.

My eyes widen as nearly every impossible inch of him slides deeper into my mouth, stealing my voice, my breath, my very ability to form a coherent thought. Cool water sloshes around us as I begin to bob my head to match his pace, sending droplets onto my eyelashes and cheeks.