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She took a seat on the far end of the couch. I moved the tray so that it was in front of her and sat down, my thigh touching hers.
She stilled. Her gaze lifted to my face, then skittered away. “I suppose I am hungry.” She reached for a succulent-looking strawberry.
I grabbed her wrist. “I’ll feed you.”
Her chin jutted. With her other hand, she snatched up the strawberry and brought it to her mouth.
I plucked it from her fingers. “The rules have changed, Mila. First rule is, I’m in charge now.”
She squeezed her thighs together, and her pupils darkened. No fear now. Instead, I scented arousal. I didn’t bother to conceal a smile of satisfaction.
“Open.” I brought the plump red fruit to her lips.
Her gaze went from the strawberry to my face, and then those soft lips parted.
Watching her eat was pure torture. The juices coated her lips, making them shiny and red…like she’d look after taking me in her mouth.
I swallowed hard and fed her another. She ate it slowly, deliberately, her gaze locked on mine the entire time.
I forgot this was meant to be a lesson in who was boss now. Instead, I fed her another strawberry. And another. By the fourth, I was iron-hard.
A muscle in my jaw worked. Was she playing me? Or was she as caught up in the moment as I was?
I couldn’t read her, and it was driving me insane.
It didn’t help that my dick didn’t give a damn either way. It strained against my pants, mindlessly eager to bury itself inside her tight, wet heat.
I could almost see Father shaking his head in disgust.“Control, son. That’s what separates the Primus from those he rules. A primus is always in command, especially of himself. From control comes strength and from strength comes power.”
I tore my gaze from hers. “Champagne?” I asked coolly.
When she nodded, I popped the cork and poured us both a glass.
“Thank you.” Mila accepted hers with a longing look at the sandwiches, cut into triangles and arranged on their own plate. “What are those?” She pointed to a trio of miniature shrimp po’boys.
“A New Orleans specialty.” I brought the small, fried-shrimp-stuffed roll to her mouth.
She took a taste and closed her eyes with pleasure. “More, please.”
I fed her another po’boy, followed by curried chicken on wheat bread. I continued feeding her between sips of champagne until she’d eaten most of the sandwiches, then had a few myself.
She finished her champagne and set the flute down.
“More?” I lifted the bottle.
“No, thanks.” She stifled a yawn. The tendons of her neck stretched.
I stared, arrested, at all that smooth, delicious flesh. The hunger rose up in me—for both blood and sex. Even for a dhampir, it could be almost unbearable at times.
She brought her hand to her throat. “Are you—tonight?”
“Am I what?”
“You know.”
“Going to feed from you?”
Beneath her fingers, a pulse jumped. My mouth watered. I could literally taste how good Mila would be, savor the warm rush of her blood as I sank my teeth into her throat at the same time I stroked into her hot cunt.
