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This was what she wanted. This would feed her, keep her warm at night.
“Elma,” he murmured against her throat. “I—”
“I know,” she gasped, burying her fingers in his hair as her head fell back against the door. He was working her into a senseless frenzy of want, knowing what would sharpen the ache between her thighs, what would make her moan his name.
As he held her in his arms, his body against hers, his touch opening her like petals in the spring, she felt herself at last begin to melt. This was not the violent, hateful desire she’d felt in her room after the assassin’s attack, fueled by bloodlust and fear. And as Rune so gentlyrocked against her, as if pressing his erection against her belly was the holiest thing he had ever done, she felt utterly safe.
This pleasure was gentle. It was soft. And she trusted him.
But Elma knew what she liked.
“Rune,” she said, breathless against his throat, “I want to see you bleed.”
He huffed, pulling back to regard her with hazy eyes. “Still hate me that much?”
“No,” she gasped, as his hands roved inside her bodice, his mouth lowering to her breast. “I want you to surrender to me.”
Rune kissed her nipple sweetly. “You say that like I haven’t already.”
“I’m your enemy,” Elma said, half groaning as she spoke, as Rune rucked up her dress and slid a hand underneath, feathering light touches on her bare thigh. “I’m the queen of Rothen.”
“My apologies, Majesty,” he said, a devilish smile curling across his features. “I forgot to pay my respects… properly.”
Without warning, Rune swept Elma into his arms and carried her to the bed. He kissed her and then tossed her onto the soft mattress, crawling up after her. He looked every bit the predator, his eyes lit with desire. She arched her back with the anticipation of pleasure and closed her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Rune said, rucking up her skirts and pulling her underclothes aside. “I am your servant. I’m nothing. Allow me to grovel.”
He lowered his mouth to her pussy, the heat and pressure of his devoted mouth driving her so quickly toward the apex, too quickly.
“Not,” she gasped, “not yet.”
Rune sat up, smiling lasciviously. Somehow, his doublet had come undone, his shirt loose at the throat, and Elmawanted to bite through his perfect skin. As she watched, still overwhelmed with pleasure, he drew a small dagger from within his doublet. “Where do you want it, Your Majesty?”
A sharp thrill ran up her spine at the sight of him, flushed and compliant, ready to bleed for her.I am your servant. I’m nothing. “Your chest,” she said, lying back to watch him, hungry, her own hand snaking thoughtlessly down to between her legs.
Rune unsheathed the dagger, tossing its scabbard aside. With agile fingers, he unlaced his doublet all the way and pulled it open, revealing his undershirt. By the time he was finished with its ties, the entirety of his bare chest finally on display, Elma was writhing with need. A tight ache pulsed between her legs as she touched herself, her body reacting to the sight of Rune’s pink-brown nipples, the few hairs on his chest. He was fit but not overly muscled, and a few faint white scars marked his skin.
“Keep touching yourself,” Rune ordered, and despite her smoldering need to lay her hands on him, she obeyed, burying two fingers deep into her wetness.
Rune groaned as he watched, his expression almost pained. “Elma,” he said, “you’re going to kill me.”
The uncontained need in his voice made her lightheaded. She felt as if she would go mad with pure unadulterated desire, but she wasn’t the only one. Rune’s lips were swollen, his eyes bright, and she saw something warm and gentle in his gaze. Something that threatened to thaw her heart completely.
But she wanted more. So much more. She would never have enough of him.
“Your blood,” she said, gasping slightly as she spoke. She hardly knew what her fingers were doing anymore, pressing and circling, following her pleasure. All she could think ofwas Rune. There was nothing in her world but him, his blue eyes, the blade in his hand, the weight of his knees pressing divots into the bed.
Never taking his eyes off hers, with a precisely delicate movement, Rune dragged the blade down his left pectoral, just inches from his nipple. He hissed in pain, and Elma let out a corresponding moan of pleasure. It was only a small, shallow cut. But blood welled from the wound and began to drip down Rune’s abdomen.
“You’re so beautiful when you bleed,” she managed to say, her vision blurred with tears. Unable to keep her fingers from him any longer, she pulled herself to a sitting position.
Rune watched through a haze of lust as she reached out, drawing her fingers across the line of blood. She had never understood why it made her breath catch, why violence had always been tangled with lust in her mind. All her life, she had seen it as a problem, a strange mistake of nature.
But Rune didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, when she glanced down, she saw a wet stain on his breeches, where his hardness strained against the leather. His breath hitched when she bent to kiss the wound; he moaned softly at the back of his throat.
The knowledge that he would hurt himself for her, to feed her strange yearning for his surrender, his lifeblood sticky on her fingers and wetting her teeth, was almost enough to make her come.
He was going toruinher. Her head spun with arousal.
