His thumb draws a slow, lazy circle around my navel, and the swirl of heat ignited there blooms downward, until I’m throbbing with it.
“Argue with me, little witch,” he breathes, “like you always do. I love the way you hate me.”
My lips part to try and argue, but no words escape, just soft pants as I suck in air to feed the fire growing in my veins. I want power, I want to own him, and I want to destroy him, but I selfishly want him to cure the ache strengthening between my thighs.
His hand on my jaw tightens.
“Hate me—hate me while I slide my fingers into that sweet little cunt and find out the depth of your loathing. I’ll learn exactly how deep it goes and how much of me you can take.”
His tongue traces the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I realize then I’m panting—loudly now—drunk on the lust thrumming through my veins.
He pulls back.
Lust and anger are at war on his features, shadowing his silver eyes and tightening his jaw.
I smirk, relishing the effect I have on him. “Do you often think about how sweet I must taste?”
His answer is instant.
“Think? Thinking isn’t enough. I’m far past that.”
His voice is a growl, raw and reverent.
“I imagine it. I dreamit. You’ll taste like every dark desire and fantasy I’ve ever had—given flesh.”
He’s trembling now. “Thoughts of you beneath me…they feel like both a blessing and a curse. And I’ll take that curse. I’ll sacrifice myself willingly, just for a taste.”
The moment shatters. Whatever leash he had on himself snaps as he crashes his lips to mine.
It’s not tender. It’s ruinous.
He devours me, starving me of air and thought—of restraint.
His hand slides from my jaw to the nape of my neck, tangling in my curls as he forces my head back. He demands I give him more.
My hands move on their own. I tug on his shirt, urging him closer, deeper.
The cold presence of the Nightmother runs up my spine, a complete contrast to the heat Cage is building in me, reminding me of my purpose here.
His hand skims down, flattening over my stomach, tracing my wrist, and sliding to the curve of my rear. He grips it hard, pulling me forward and onto his lap.
My thighs part; I straddle him as I cling around his hips. The pressure, angle, and heat are all too much but not enough.
He groans into my mouth, kneading my ass roughly and claiming me as his own. The sound rips a moan from my own throat, caught between pain and pleasure.
And I drink in his sweet surrender. His offering. Like a perfect wine, I get drunk on it.
This is no holy prayer. This is a completely selfish one, given to me, and I can’t get enough. And yet—
I will not be his salvation but his damnation. I get lost in it: his mouth, his hands, and the ache blooming between my thighs.
And then she laughs, dripping with malice.
His body. His blood. His body, his blood.
She chants, her voice twisting into something oily and dark as a void.
