Page 34 of Collected By the Crow

“How?”

“You’ll need to drink some of my blood.” He continued to avoid looking at her. “Which is a strong aphrodisiac.”

Oh, shit. Nausea lurched in her stomach. Of fucking course it is. “Great.”

“You mustn’t drink much. And, as long as I’m sane”—he finally looked at her—“I promise not to allow anything to happen.”

“That implies I won’t be able to control myself,” she deadpanned. To her dismay, he gave her a curt nod. “Fantastic.”

“This must be done at relatively the same time.” He bit himself over a beaker and filled it to fifty ml with black blood. About the size of a shot of vodka. “Drink it when I pierce your skin.”

She took a bold step forward, accepted the beaker, and extended her arm wrist up.

“This might sting a pinch.” His pupils drifted to her nose, but no higher. He plucked vials from the stand on the counter and held one in both upper hands.

“I’m ready.”

He steadied her with his lower right hand on her hip, his lower left cradling her wrist like a wounded baby bird. Like it was precious. It reminded her of a lifetime ago, inside an impossible greenhouse.

He hesitated. Her wrist shrank in comparison to his strong jaw and the thick gray fingers curled around it. His cool breath breezed over her palm, then his fangs elongated, and she swore she saw them pulse before they sank into her skin.

A rush of something very, very cold chilled her bloodstream, the iciness spreading quickly outward until her whole hand was numb. She sucked an involuntary breath and threw back the shot of thick black liquid.

Qadaire pulled away with lightning speed, lifting the two vials under each fang. Cassandra’s frozen hand dropped like lead. She cradled it to her chest, rubbing it feverishly with her right, staring at the clear liquid streaming down the erotic curve of his teeth.

She rose heavy, hooded lids to Qadaire, whose pupils were dilated to the max.

Drip, drip, drip.

She was entranced by the sensual fluid seeping from his fangs. Her mouth filled with saliva, so much that she had to lick her dry lips. She couldn’t force herself to turn from the alluring stream as it drip, drip, dripped. She hauled her gaze up to his and caught the same hunger reflected there.

She was drunk. Groggy. And hopelessly empty.

She was hyper aware of all the places their bodies touched, including the firm hands on her waist holding her utterly still. She tried to roll her hips forward, to coax him to touch her more. She reached for the hem of his pants, her hands making decisions her brain wasn’t able to block. Her body slumped forward when the gray hands on her waist swiftly moved to prevent her from reaching the buttons. A low warble emitted from Qadaire’s throat, evoking memories where those warbles vibrated against her pussy, quaking through her. Those fucking delicious sounds, they’d appeared every time they came together. He wanted her. She knew it.

“Take me, Q.” Her voice sounded far away. “Take me. I know you want to.”

His noises darkened. He shifted her wrists together into one of his deft hands, and she buzzed with excitement, hoping that meant his free hand would whip out his cock and impale her on it. He didn’t. She heard the clinking of glass but couldn’t force her mind to give a fuck.

“Please, Q. Please. I need you to fill me.”

“Cassandra.” His voice was distorted, by her fogged brain or his own desire, or possibly from having his mouth hanging open. She wasn’t sure. But the hoarse timbre was further encouragement, and she leaned her weighty body forward. It was like wading through molasses, but she managed to rub herself against him.

“Oh, fuck, Q.” He was hard. She raised her knee to his hip and ground against his erection again. It was an impressive size and would surely fill her deliciously. She imagined if he pulled her down and shoved it in her mouth she would gag around it. She groaned and moved again, but this time, four strong hands stopped her. They spun her around and held her captive, making her whine in protest until she realized she could still feel his stiff cock against the seam of her ass. She moaned and bucked again, imagining him taking her from behind, bent over the steel table and rutting into her like a wild animal.

With a guttural groan and those goddamn noises still rumbling through him, he pushed her away. His sturdy grip kept her at arm’s length.

“Cassandra, find yourself.” His breath hitched, his dark tone like a beast’s. “I can’t take this torture much longer.”

At the loss of his hard body against hers, the need slowly began to fade.

“How . . . Much . . .” She struggled to speak without slurring her words. “Longer?”

“Any moment now.”

A few deep breaths later and she stepped away from his sturdy grasp with a clear mind. Now she was the one struggling to make eye contact as she helped seal up the vials.

“Thank you.” She forced herself to face him. “For everything. Seriously.”

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