Page 18 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

She stares at me, waiting for me to respond, and her heart pounds, amplifying the song of her blood.

I cup her cheeks and pull her face to mine, pressing our foreheads together. “Ti amo piccola ballerina.” I angle my mouth towards hers. “I love you more than you know.”

Her stiff body relaxes as our lips meet in a sensual, promising kiss. She grips my lapels, pressing her chest to mine, her soft breasts almost spilling over the top of her low neckline.

I shrug the jacket off as our mouths continue to move. Our tongues dance in a passionate tango while her delicate fingers undo the buttons of my white shirt without breaking her lips away or looking down. Her hips roll as she grinds against my cock. I toss my jacket somewhere behind the couch, my hands sliding up her legs and pushing her skirt to her waist so I can squeeze her sweet little butt while she writhes on top of me. My fingertips find a pair of cheeky lace underwear that barely covers her ass and pussy, the fabric nearly soaked through.

I brush my thumb over her dripping entrance as she slides my shirt down my arms, her fingertips trailing over my skin and skimming across my muscles. A groan leaves our mouths in unison, and I have to stop. Have to pull away and catch my breath. I don’t need oxygen to survive, but this woman—this sweet ballerina of mine—leaves me breathless more often than I care to admit.

Imogen’s chest heaves as much as mine, the swell of her breasts appearing and disappearing behind the swooping neckline of her dress. That beautiful heated flush I’m addicted to spreads up her neck and across her cheeks. She reaches up to unclasp the halter on her dress, eyes locked on mine once more.

“Say it again.” The bodice of her dress falls to reveal her gorgeous breasts and rosy pink nipples. “Tell me again, Pietro.”

Imogen grabs her skirt and lifts the dress up and over her head until she’s wearing nothing but her lacy red panties and heels, perched on my lap and hovering over my still-clothed dick. I slide my hands up her back and around to her front, stopping just beneath her tits, stroking the undersides with my thumbs. Her eyes close and her head falls back. Her golden glamour waves swirl down her torso, and her nipples tighten into points, practically begging me to touch, taste, and tease them.

My torso straightens until our bodies are only a hair apart. Imogen’s breath catches, her head lifting and lips parting. Her hands fly to my shoulders for balance. I encircle her neck with one hand, my thumb settling beneath her chin so she’s forced to hold my gaze.

“I love you, Imogen.” I pour everything I feel for her into each syllable so there’s no doubt I speak the truth. “I will love you for all of my endless days.”

Her lip trembles, and her eyes fill with happy tears. I kiss her again, flipping us so she’s under me on the couch. I spread her out beneath me, my hands roaming her naked skin as our mouths twist together. Her nipples are so hard they scrape against my palms. Goddess, I want to kiss them. But I’m still overdressed for the occasion.

I break away from her reluctantly. She groans in disappointment, clutching at me and trying to pull me back on top of her.

“Don’t worry, dolcezza.” I rub her through her underwear as I undo my pants. “I’m going to give you what you need.” I punctuate my promise with a little pinch on her clit.

“Pietro!” Her voice is high-pitched and needy, her back arching off the couch as her hips buck.

I flash her a playful smile before removing my clothes as quickly as I can, hovering over her again once I’m naked. A moan escapes me when our skin touches. Pleasure thunders through me at the feel of her. It’s more intense, more thrilling than before, as if her declaration deepened the tenuous connection between us—the connection we may never complete.

My throat tightens at the thought. I close my eyes and bury my face in her neck, inhaling her rich sangria scent. Imogen clutches at my hair as my hand slips beneath the waistband of her panties, seeking her warmth. I thumb over her clit while my index finger slides inside her, slow and steady, pumping in and out at an even pace. She arches and writhes against me, moaning and yelling my name. I kiss her neck everywhere I can reach, sucking at the tender flesh. Her pulse jumps beneath my lips and tongue, quickening with every passing second and once again raising the volume of her blood’s song.

My finger plunges deeper into her pussy while my other hand twines into the hair at her nape, tugging her head back and to the side as I drag my teeth across her skin. A guttural moan, primal and almost inhuman, tears from Imogen just as a sweet, tangy warmth teases my tongue, making a similar sound rumble from my own throat.

I flinch and yank my face away from her neck, staring down at her. Her eyelids flutter with pleasure, hands moving to her breasts to play with her nipples. But what catches my eye is the line of deep-red blood across her collarbone, trailing down her chest towards her breast in tantalizing lines.

I’m hypnotized by those drops. They paint a tempting picture, urging me to bend down and lick them from her body, to place my mouth over the scratch my fangs left behind and drink. Long, deep pulls of her blood that would fill my mouth and awaken my senses, that would make her fall apart harder and faster than any orgasm I’ve given her in the last week.

With another groan, I tear myself away from her and fly across the room, pressing my back against the far wall. It doesn’t matter how much I want it, how wonderful she tasted, or how much she enjoyed the endorphins released when my fangs nicked her skin. It doesn’t matter that I’d need less blood from her to satisfy my cravings and restore my power than I do from any other source. None of that matters, because feeding from her is something I’m not sure I can ever do. Not without losing control of myself and forcing her to become something she may not want to be.

Jolted from her euphoric haze, Imogen glances around. My sudden absence stills the air between us. She sits up, her eyes find me, and hurt flashes across them. Her lip trembles before she breaks eye contact, snatching my shirt from the couch. She pulls it on without looking at me, slipping her arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up, her hair curtaining her face. But it doesn’t hide the water lining her lids or the tremor in her hands. It doesn’t hide the hint of salt in the air as a tear slips down her cheek.

I snarl at myself, hands flying into my hair as I tug at the roots. I cross the room in a blur and yank on my boxers before grabbing her wrist, stopping her from leaving.

“Imogen.” I spin her into my chest, resting my hands on her shoulders. “Stop.”

She freezes but still avoids my gaze, looking everywhere in the den except at me.

But I grit my teeth and press on. “I didn’t reject you,” I say. “I had to stop before I did something I’d never forgive myself for.”

“What?” she asks, her voice shaky and tired.

I sigh and move my hand to the collar of the shirt, tugging it aside to trace my thumb over the scratch on her neck, the scratch that no longer oozes blood. Imogen angles her face down to look, then her head whips up to me, eyes wide.

“Oh.”

I nod, pinching my lips together.

“It didn’t hurt though,” she says.