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“Drink, Tarnley.”
“It’s been too long,” I tell her. “I don’t—"
“Will this not be enough?” she asks, setting the knife down and stepping forward.
I shut my eyes tightly and shake my head, all the while inhaling the aroma that is Bronywyn, and something far more sinister.
“You can drink from my throat if you need,” she offers, tilting her head to the side.
“No. Absolutely not.” Opening my eyes, I glare at her. “I will not drink from your throat.”Because if I do, I’ll not want to stop.
“Am I that repulsive to you now?”
“Not at all.” I can’t help but gape at her. How she could ever believe I don’t want her—
“Then what is it?”
“You are not mine,” I say, simply. I never drink from a throat. Always a wrist, and only a wrist, for the last century. Burying my teeth in someone’s throat has always just felt far too personal. And the only way I’d want to drink from Bronywyn’s throat is if my cock were buried deep inside of her and it was the only way to get her blood on my tongue.
The thought barrels into my mind, the mental image of the woman before me writhing in pleasure beneath me. If I could just—
“Tarnley.”
At her stern voice, I shift my attention back to her.
“You need to drink. Now.”
She’s right, of course. So, in an attempt to listen, and somewhat curb my appetite for her, I step forward, taking her offered wrist and kneeling before her. She watches me, green eyes wide, lips slightly parted as I press my mouth to the cut in her wrist.
The moment the copper hits my lips, my body sizzles, my own blood responding to the power in hers. I’m unable to stop myself as I bury my fangs in her wrist.
She cries out, but the sound is lost to me as I pull deeply, savoring every drop of blood I can get into my mouth. It’s a stampede on my senses, an onslaught that I hope I don’t survive. The beast inside wants more—craves more—so I force myself to pull back, retreating just as I’ve taken in enough the blood lust is curbed.
For now.
Through heavy lids, I look up at her. This is the first time I’ve fed from her this way. The first of her blood since that night, that I didn’t take from a vial. And even then, I’d only woken up with the knowledge that I’d tasted her.
I don’t actually remember her giving it to me.
“Thank you.”
Bronywyn nods and swallows hard as I get to my feet and retrieve the knife from the counter. I run it across my wrist and stare down at the blood welling on the surface. Other than Allison, on the night our bond was solidified, I’ve never allowed another to feed directly from me. And other than the vials of my own blood I’ve provided Bronywyn, no one else has tasted that part of me.
She drops her eyes to my bloody wrist, raising them back up to my face before leaning down and pressing her lips to my skin. They’re soft, her full lips against my sliced wrist. I grip the countertop with my free hand to keep from burying my hands in the silky strands of her hair.
While she never drank my blood in front of me, I always imagined it was not a pleasant experience. Something I never took personally. She’s a witch, not a vampire, so blood is not in her appetite.
So, when she squeezes my wrist, her fingers digging into my flesh as she pulls more than she needs into her mouth, it catches me entirely by surprise. It’s erotic as fuck, watching her drink from me.
Bronywyn lifts her head, my blood dripping from her mouth, and all pleasure vanishes like smoke on the wind.
Eyes completely black, she stares up at me, more animal than woman. “Bronywyn?”
She grins savagely as the blood slides down her cheeks and drips onto the white cotton of the shirt.
“Bronywyn!” I roar. Her face contorts in pain, and she crumples to her knees, taking me with her. I reach forward, grabbing her before she can fall all the way over as her eyes steadily flutter closed.
My heart pounds in my chest as I fight to catch my breath in the panic of seeing her that way.
Is this what happens every time she drinks my blood? Or is this a direct result of the magical shift within her?
Clinging to her as though she may disappear, I sit on the floor of my kitchen, her head in my lap. Just above my head, on the granite counter, is a roll of paper towels, so I stretch up to grab them, barely managing to knock it over the edge, and catch it before it can hit her.
She groans in my lap, her knees curling up to her chest, revealing creamy thighs I have wanted to bury myself between for years now. Though, at this moment, my concern for her shoves all romantic feelings out of my mind as I work to wipe the blood from her chin and cheeks.
As soon as she’s clean, I toss it aside and pull her tightly against my chest. Then, closing my eyes, I let my mind drift to the first time I saw her…and knew.
