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“No, no. I like to be thorough.”
I noticed, I thought grimly, as he licked away a tiny, almost-not-there scratch on my knee. I started to reach for him, hot and aching and desperate. But then rough fingers slipped over the skin of my outer thighs, smoothed up to my buttocks, and then back down to tease the softness behind my knees.
And, God, he knew how I loved that.
He did it again and I sighed and gave up, because clearly Mircea was going to take his time whether I liked it or not. Although I couldn’t imagine what he thought he was doing—
Nibbling on my foot? It would have been more surprising, except that Mircea liked feet the way I liked long, beautiful hair. In a quasi-fetishy sort of way that we didn’t talk about, but that I indulged by doing a lot more pedicuretype things than I ever had before dating him.
Of course, he usually preferred the objects of his affection encased in silk stockings, the old-fashioned kind with the seam up the back, which he kept sending me in alarming quantities. Or useless wisps of leather, preferably beaded and be-crystalled to within an inch of their life. Or those weird satin mules with the marabou feathers that I drew the line at because I kept tripping over them.
Not cracked and bruised and torn and battered.
Not that that seemed to be slowing him down any.
He licked the underside of the big toe, curling his tongue all the way around it, and I made a small sound. Teasing, dark eyes regarded me from over pink skin and chipped polish. “How did you manage to get barbecue sauce on your toes?”
“I didn’t,” I said indignantly.
He just laughed. “You taste good.”
I would have answered, but he’d started mouthing the mound below the toes and I forgot how. I laid my head back instead and stared at the ceiling, trying not to go completely out of my mind as he took his sweet time. Halfway through, I decided that if I survived this, I was going to kill him. It wouldn’t be easy, him being a master vamp and all, but I would find a way.
He licked a long swath up my instep and I shivered helplessly. “Are you cold?” he asked innocently.
“Mircea, seriously—”
I broke off because he’d started sucking on my heel. Which should have been no big deal, but which, for some reason, felt positively sinful. Who the hell knew that a heel could be an erogenous zone?
“Anything can be, if you never get a chance to see it,” he murmured.
“People see feet all the time.”
“Today. But they even swathed the piano legs in Victoria’s London.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Humans rarely do,” he told me, and bit down.
I made a sound that was absolutely not a whimper, but might have been edging that way. Because the sensation had shot straight to an area that definitely was an erogenous zone. And that had already been pretty damn stimulated.
“Mircea, I swear to God—”
“All done,” he told me, releasing my foot. I sagged in relief.
And then he grabbed the other one.
And that was it.
I let the pink, silky-skinned foot he’d left me with come to rest on that taut chest. Mircea paused what he was doing to look at me narrowly, which I took as a good sign. Getting his attention hadn’t been so hard, after all. Let’s see if I could keep it.
I let my foot caress a flat little nipple, rubbing it to a peak between my toes, and then sliding down a ridge
d stomach to a hard thigh. Mircea hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even moved. I smiled.
My toes slid lower, across satiny skin and crisp hair to a velvety hardness that jumped eagerly under my touch. I felt a little clumsy—I wasn’t nearly as dexterous as with my hands—but my foot was surprisingly sensitive. I hadn’t expected to feel . . . quite so much. My own breath picked up a little as I went exploring, sliding my toes slowly up and down that rigid column. And I guess I must have gotten something right, because it swelled impossibly bigger under my touch.
“That isn’t . . .” He stopped and licked his lips. “That isn’t going to work.”
