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“Throw myself upon your mercy?” he teased.
“Haven’t you already done that before? Shouldn’t that be your last resort? Or am I too strong of an opponent for you?”
“No, not in the slightest,” he said and then finished his dinner as well. “For I have your weakness in my hand.”
“Really? And what is that?”
He sat up against the marble, then with speed so fast the water splashed outside the tub, he moved directly in front of me. He lifted my chin gently and brushed his thumb over my lips.
“Your weakness is my past.”
“What?”
“When I bit you before, I did it out of anger, pain, and fear, and that is why it was wrong,” he whispered, his face closer to mine. “I was angered and in pain, for I could not find you. Then, when you reappeared, I was fearful that you were not real. So I bit you to know you were truly in my arms and also to know what had happened.”
“You don’t have to feel guilt over it. I am fine.”
“I am happy to hear that, but that was not my point, my dear.”
“What is your point, then, my dear?” I shot back.
He snickered. “When I bit you, I did not see you in the library. Nevertheless, I did see some of your memories, as you will when you bite me. You were not there, but you can be through my memories. Name an artist or a time, any in history with the exception of the last century, and I shall take you there.”
My mouth dropped open. This was—“Bribery?”
He grinned. “Negotiation.”
“Mate with you right here and right now, and you shall show me all of history?” Dammit, I was excited. And he knew I would be. “You only told me about history before and didn’t let me drink from you so you could bring this up right here and now.”
“I am not so cunning,” he lied. I could see it in the look in his eyes. He sighed dramatically and began to drift back. “Well, if you do not want to…”
I grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Were you in Florence during the time of the Renaissance, the mortal Renaissance?”
“I was invited to dine and converse a great many times with Lorenzo de’ Medici.”
My mouth dropped open. If there were ever a true lover of art in this world, it was Lorenzo de’ Medici. It was because of him we had Leonardo da Vinci, Sandro Botticelli, Piero, and Antonio del Pollaiuolo, Domenico Ghirlandaio, Michelangelo Buonarroti, and the list went on. If not for that man, there would be no Sistine Chapel, no Birth of Venus.
“Have you surrendered?” he questioned, trying not to laugh at whatever look I had on my face.
I loosened my grip on his arm but didn’t let go. He noticed, as well. “I thought this was a negotiation?”
He yanked me into his arms, wrapping me within them. “Negotiations, briberies, pure unadulterated lust, however you wish to justify it, I do not care, for I am already at my limit and need you once again.”
A twinge of guilt sparked in my heart. Here I was thinking of art when all he was doing was thinking of me. Turning in his arms, I wrapped my arms and legs around him. “I can visit your past later. Now, I think unadulterated lust is my reason—”
His lips were on mine instantly.
It wasn’t like when we were in the sea, where he slowly tried to prepare me. This time there was no foreplay. He kissed my lips and guided my hips until I was on top of him, and then, in one swift motion, he thrust up as he brought me down. My mouth parted against his. It was only then, as our bodies moved together in pleasure, did I remember one thing.
“Where…where…am I supposed to…to bite you…ah!” I moaned, gripping on to him.
“The heart veins,” he whispered, kissing right over my breast and under my shoulder.
“Do it.”
I did not need to ask him twice. His teeth were once again on my skin, but it did not hurt at all for some reason. It only made pleasure ripple through my body. I would have held him there longer had he not broken away.
“Now, Druella.”
