Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(102)

He bit out, “And just how had you planned to take me?”

She blinked. “I thought I’d just slide down.”

“Then I’ll need you slick, I’ll need you dripping.” He drew back to behold her swollen breasts. Right before his eyes, a flush radiated over her supple skin, teasing him with all the places he could pierce her. “Cup your breasts to my mouth.”

When she did, he held her gaze as he nuzzled one nipple. Closing his lips over it, he tongued the peak. . . .

“Lothaire!” As he began to suckle, she undulated, working to impale herself.

Agony. He felt like he would explode, seconds away from pumping into her with only the crown inside. With a groan, he pierced her nipple, a tiny prick of his fang, blood streaming to his lapping tongue. Delectable! Would he ever get enough of it?

She screamed. In pain? No, she was arching her back. “Lothaire, suck harder.”

He did, until the suction on her nipple was nearly holding her upright.

When he forced himself to stop, she whimpered, hastily cupping her other breast to tempt him again. “Here.”

He stole another taste. Against her breast, wetted from his mouth and her blood, he rasped, “Can’t take more.”

Clutching his shoulders, she muttered, “Neither can I.” Still he hadn’t penetrated her. “You really are too big.”

She started to crawl off him. To get away from me? His fangs grew even sharper, his instincts commanding him. . . .

Trace her to the bed, pin her down.

Take her blood, flood her with seed.

He gripped her tiny waist, trapping her, just preventing his claws from digging into her skin. “Ah-ah, Lizvetta.”

“We don’t fit!”

“We will. I won’t let you go until I’ve claimed you.” Forgive me. His hips bucked, bouncing her on his shaft, sending her up, then sliding back down.

“Lothaire!” Her voice was a mix of pain and desire. “Let me go!”

“No. Because right now, you are not”—another buck of his hips—“yet”—a more forceful thrust—“mine!” he growled as he hit the top of her sex.

With a choked cry, she dipped her head forward, her body trembling against his heaving chest.

“Look at me. Did I hurt you?” he asked, ignoring the voices in his head, the ones clamoring, Pin her, claim her, make her understand who’ll mark her.

Who’ll master her.

She bit her lip, her expression grave. “It hurt some, Leo.”

No, never hurt you! He shook himself, inwardly chanting, Endgame. Endgame. Elizabeth as my queen. Can’t frighten her.

She’d never know the battle inside him as she began maneuvering over his shaft. He splayed his fingers across her ass, feeling her flesh move so sensuously as she tested her body, their tight fit.

Fuck, he was throbbing inside her! No, control yourself! He gnashed his teeth, sweat dampening his skin.

When she gave a cautious rock of her hips, they met eyes, both wondering how she’d react.

Her lids grew heavy . . . a moan slipped from her lips.

He shuddered in response. It struck him that he was actually watching his woman—his—discover this pleasure for the first time. The idea gratified him in ways he couldn’t describe.

How long I’ve waited for this, waited for her.

“Now it just feels better and better.” She touched her forehead against his. “Baby, I can feel your heartbeat inside me.”

Soon you will in more ways than one. “You can never take this back, Lizvetta. I’ve claimed you for my own.” But not completely. He still needed to bite her neck. Ritual. The mark was a sign of this claiming, the seal between them.

Sink your fangs into her. Make her writhe on them as well.

Just when his eyes locked onto a pulse point in her neck, she whispered, “I never knew it could be like this. Lothaire, I’ve never felt closer to another.”

He dragged his gaze up to hers. Voice thick, he admitted, “Neither have I.”

She smiled. “Good.”

Don’t hurt her. Only gentleness. Don’t scare her.

Tonight, Lothaire, you don’t get to be a vampire with her.

In Russian, he told her, “Little mortal, you’ve changed everything.”

How can I want you this much? To deny what I am?

Because he was feeling something stronger for her—a bone-deep feeling of possessiveness, of protectiveness.

No one would ever harm the female in his arms, not even himself.





42


When Ellie rose up and tentatively slid down the first time, Lothaire’s eyes widened, then grew hooded once more.

Was he as shocked as she was by how right this felt?

Even his irises appeared sharper, their shape more defined, his gaze lucid as it locked with hers.

Connection . . .

In the past, Ellie had never communed with another, had never looked into a boy’s eyes and felt something deeper than the need for release.

Now, with Lothaire . . . she did.

This was more than just sex; this was a bond, like a promise between them.

She thought she’d known what kind of man she wanted. Now she realized she’d always needed this vampire lover with his hungry red eyes and his lifetimes of yearning.

He’s yearned all this time for me.