The Story of Son(9)

Fear had her heart going like a bat out of hell. Fear and . . . oh, God, please let that rush not be partially about anticipation.

“Wait!” She sat up. “How do you know you won’t . . . take too much?”

“I can sense your blood pressure and I am very careful. I couldn’t bear to hurt you.” He stood from the desk. More candles were extinguished.

“Please, not the whole darkness,” she said when only the one on the bedside table was left. “I can’t handle it.”

“It will be better that way—”

“No! God, no . . . it really won’t. You don’t know what it feels like on my end. The darkness terrifies me.”

“Then we shall do this in the light.”

As he came to the bed, she heard the chains first; then his shadow emerged out of the blackness.

“Perhaps you would stand?” he said. “So I may do it from behind again? That way you wouldn’t have to see me. It shall take a little longer this time.”

Claire exhaled, her body heating, her blood running hot. She wanted to tease out the whys of her dangerous lack of self-preservation, but what did they matter? She was where she was. “I think . . . I think I want to see you.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure? Because once I begin, it is difficult to stop in the middle. . . .”

God, they sounded like two solicitous Victorians talking about sex.

“I need to see.”

He took a deep breath, as if he were nervous and girding himself to get through the anxiety. “Perhaps you would sit on the edge of the bed then? That way I may kneel before you.”

Claire shifted so her legs were dangling off the mattress. He lowered a little, bending at the knees, then shook his head.

“No,” he murmured. “I shall have to sit beside you.”

He sat with his back to the candle, so his face was in darkness. “May I ask you to turn toward me?”

She changed her position and looked up. The light of the flame formed a halo around his head and she wished she could see his face. Craved the beauty in him.

“Michael,” she whispered. “You should have been named Michael. After the archangel.”

His hand came up and moved her hair back. Then it planted into the mattress as he leaned into her.

“I like that name,” he said softly.

She felt his lips against her throat first, a light caress of skin brushing skin. Then his mouth drew back and she knew it was parting, revealing fangs. The bite happened quickly and decisively and she jumped, much more aware this time. The pain was greater, but so was the sweetness that followed.

Claire moaned as heat swept through her body and the pull of his sucking started, his mouth finding a rhythm. She wasn’t exactly sure when she touched him. It just happened. Her palms went up to his shoulders.

He was the one who jerked now and as he pulled back, the light hit part of his face. He was breathing hard, his lips parted, the tips of his fangs just barely showing. He was hungry, but shocked.

She ran her hands down his arms. The muscles were thick and cut.

“I can’t stop,” he said in a distorted voice.

“I just . . . want to touch you.”

“I can’t stop.”

“I know. And I want to touch you.”

“Why?”

“I want to feel you.” She couldn’t believe it, but she tilted her head to the side, exposing her throat. “Take what you need. And I’ll do the same.”

This time he lunged at her, clamping a hand on the opposite side of her throat and biting her with power. Her body surged, her breasts making contact with the hard wall of his chest, his scent roaring. Gripping his heavy upper arms, she fell backward onto the pillows and he came with her.

Michael’s body was now solidly on hers, the weight of him pushing her down on the mattress. He was blocking out the candlelight so she couldn’t see anything clearly, though the glow behind him grounded her against infinity. Somehow it was okay, although for a dangerous reason: The darkness made the sensations of him at her neck all the more vivid, from the wet cup of his warm mouth to the tugging draw of his swallows to the sexual current between them.

God help her, she liked what he was doing to her.

Claire searched out and found his hair. With a groan of satisfaction, she tangled her hands in the silken thickness, balling up huge chunks of it, feeling her way to his scalp.

As he froze, she fell still and felt the trembling that went through him. She waited to see if he would continue and he did. When the drinking started up again, the room began to spin, but she didn’t care. She had him to hold on to.

At least until he pulled back quickly and left her on the bed. Retreating into the dark corner, with his chains to mark his movement, he all but disappeared on her.

Claire sat up. When she felt wetness between her breasts, she looked down. Blood was running down her chest and getting absorbed by the white robe. She barked out a curse and scrambled to cover the puncture marks he’d made.

Instantly, Michael was in front of her, peeling her hands back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t finish it properly. Wait, no, don’t fight me. I need to finish it. Let me finish it so I can stop the bleeding.”

He captured her hands in one of his, moved her hair back, and put his mouth on her throat. His tongue came out and stroked over her skin. And stroked again. And again.