The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(97)

“Selena,” he groaned. “I’m sorry…”

“For what,” she said roughly.

“This.”

He struck her throat, fangs sinking deep, blood rushing onto his tongue, down his throat. And as he nursed at her, his body pumped against the wadded duvet, desperately trying to find her core through the layers of sheeting, his cock throbbing, the friction making everything worse.

As he drank hard, a growl reverberated out of his chest, filling the air with the sound of a male animal getting what he needed—or at least, part of what he needed. And in a way, maybe it was good that he was so blood starved. Otherwise, the sexual urge would have taken precedence.

As long as all he did was feed? They could come back from that.

Anything further, and they were—

Mine, a voice deep inside of him announced.

Mine.

Selena had thought she was prepared for this. She’d thought she was ready to come up here to this room, to find Trez in this bed, to have him at her wrist. She’d assumed she was ready to do her duty and keep the secret of wanting him to herself.

Instead, she was blown away. By the power of him unleashed, by the strike at her neck … by the sexual desperation with which she needed him. And there was more. Crushed under his great weight, feeling his hips surge and retreat on top of her, knowing that he was drinking of her vein, she was at least momentarily unafraid of the statues in the cemetery up above. How could she fear them now? Not with her body like this, with her arms and legs, her very sex, loose and hot and desperate to receive him.

Opening her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling beyond his dark shoulders. “Take me,” she breathed into his growl. “Take me…”

In response, his fingers slid up to her palms and steepled in between, holding instead of trapping as he nuzzled at her vein, his cheek stubbly against her skin. She had an instinct to part her legs, and as soon as she did, the pressure of his pumping torso zeroed in on that aching heart of her, pushing, rubbing—but it was too indistinct. She wanted it focused.

She wanted them both naked as he did that.

There was no moving, however. Trez had her pinned and the frustration she felt amplified the hunger that had taken root, the denial of what she wanted ratcheting up the need. Pushing against his palms, she got nowhere, her strength nothing compared to his.

“More,” she moaned as she curled her spine upward, her breasts tightening painfully, her heart thumping under her ribs.

Each pull against her throat, every draw on her vein, all the suction he brought upon her, took her closer to some kind of precipice—and she’d never wanted to fall so badly before. Even though she didn’t know where the landing would take her, she couldn’t imagine that she could rise any higher without splintering apart.

She was wrong.

Except then he stopped.

With a curse, he seemed to have to force himself to retract—and even then, he didn’t go far from her neck. With his fangs out of her skin, his head hung there for the longest time. Until he started licking at the puncture wounds to close them.

This can’t be over, she thought frantically. This can’t be—

“I’m sorry,” he said in a guttural voice.

“Please … please,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t stop…”

This brought his head up and around. And, dearest Virgin Scribe, he was magnificent. Thick lips parted, black eyes glossy, a high blush upon his cheeks, he was both satiated and hungry still, the male animal only partially fed.

And she was well aware what part of his meal was missing.

Yet when she tried to reach for him, her hands pushed against an iron hold.

“Take me,” she begged. “Down below … I need you there—”

“Jesus Christ,” he spat as he leaped off her, all but throwing himself from the bed.

Up on his feet, he seemed to lose coordination, but then he stalked off to the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Cold rushed in all over her. And not just because his body no longer blanketed her own. It was shame. Embarrassment.

But how could she have gotten that wrong?

Sitting up required a couple of tries. And when she was finally off the pillows, she pushed at the mess of her hair and tugged the lapels of her robing back into place. Twisting around, she looked at where she had lain. Her blood was a bright red stain on the white sheets.

Her wrist was still bleeding from where she had scored it.

Taking care of that with her own tongue, she shifted her legs off the bed. They felt too weak to hold her weight, but she had no choice, save to call them into service.

Going over to the closed bathroom door, she placed her hand upon the panels. On the far side, she could hear him breathing hard.

As she opened her mouth, intending to apologize for her temerity and then take her leave—she took a deep inhale—

The scent of his sexual arousal was strong as ever, and she frowned. He wanted her, still. So why had he …

At least her mortification could ease a little. “Trez?”

“I’m sorry.”

Testing the knob, she found things unlocked—but as she began to open the door, he barked, “No! Don’t—”

As the scent of that arousal grew even stronger in her nose, she peered inside. He was across the way, braced against the sinks, his head hanging low. And whatever torment he was going through, his body was clear with where it stood.