I snap forward, aiming to grab his wrist.
I won’t be baited, not by him. If I’m going to feed, I’ll take what I want.
He catches my wrist before I can reach him.
“Predictable,” he murmurs. “Though I’ll admit you’re a lot stronger when you feed.”
He tightens his grip, firm, but he doesn’t seem hurried. His thumb strokes softly along the inside of my wrist, a stark contrast to how forcefully he pins me.
With one hand, he presses both of mine down onto my thigh. His palm engulfs them entirely, anchoring me.
Then his bloodied finger drags across my lips, painting them in crimson.
I part my lips without hesitation, tongue darting out to taste the smear. He watches me, still. His eyes have gone darker, hungry.
He lifts the finger, slices the tip, and offers it again, pushing it past my lips.
I take it greedily.
The flavor is rich and uniquely smoky. I suck hard, my groan muffled by the motion. My desire surges, my breasts tighten with an aching need, and a deep throb coils between my thighs. Every pull of blood feels like it tugs straight to my core.
He withdraws, then pushes it back in.
The rhythm is unrelenting. He forces his finger deeper, but I don’t gag. I’m far too gone. The taste drives me, consumes me to drink it all.
“Fuck, Millicent,” he rasps. His voice cracks with restraint.
I shift, and water splashes around us. My arousal spikes as I feel the heat blooming beneath the surface of my skin.
“I got you.”
He leans in, releases my wrist, and takes one of my hands. He guides it down, slow and deliberate.
I moan softly as my fingers find that achingly sweet place. He doesn’t let me move on instinct. He controls every motion with his hands. He presses my fingers to the seam of my heat, guiding them lower. He parts them, circles them, but never enters.
I whine, biting softly at his finger as I feed. My body clenches, desperate for more and protesting his delay. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s driving me mad.
“I almost want to make you beg,” he mutters, jaw tightening as he guides my fingers upward. He circles my swollen nub, and my knees draw together. My body is coiling from the flood of sensation.
I’m hypersensitive. My eyes flutter from every nerve stretched thin. I moan, breath hitching as my fingers, still puppeteered by him, pull me closer to the edge.
He drags my hand lower again and presses one finger inside. The slick heat almost welcomes it, and a tremor rocks through me. Another moan escapes me before I can catch it.
“Do you haveanyidea what this is doing to me?” His voice cracks, sounding like a half-curse, or rather a confession. “What Iwantto do to you? The only thing stopping me is your drugged state. And even then, that isn’t stopping me enough, Millicent.”
There’s heat in his words, frustration, almost hateful—hateful for the way I undo him—but his eyes are reverent.
I’ve never felt so wholly seen, desired, or devoured like his eyes are doing now.
“Keep looking at me,” he growls. “You’re getting so tight. I want you to remember who made you cum, even in this state.”
His own voice is now drenched with the same fire burning low in my gut.
Another finger pushes in. I gasp at the sweet stretch, the way my walls tremble and tighten from his relentless thrusts.
He raises my thumb, circles my clit again, matching the rhythm of the finger in my mouth. The mirrored motion sends lightning through my spine.
It’s too much. Too good.
