Page 8 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I smirk, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. “And I’m ready to burn again, it seems.”

His brow furrows, a flicker of something between concern and exasperation crossing his face.

“Too soon?” I tease, arching a brow.

Grayson huffs—a sound caught between a sigh and a laugh—then shakes his head. “Perhaps you could give us all a day or two to recover before you start joking about your death.”

Then his mouth crashes down on mine, restraint shattering. Our teeth clash, tongues tangle, and our breaths merge. It’s messy, desperate, consuming. His hands roam my body, leaving trails of ice and fire. I arch into him, needing more.

He breaks away, trailing kisses down my neck. I feel the sharp promise of his fangs.

“Grayson,” I gasp, tilting my head to give him better access.

He sinks his fangs into me, and the world explodes into a kaleidoscope of sensation. Pleasure and pain fuse, each amplifying the other, a symphony of exquisite agony reverberating through every fiber of my being. I feel him—not just his body, but his essence, his soul—merging with mine in an ancient, intimate dance.

The boundaries between us dissolve. His venom courses through my veins, igniting every cell in my body. I’m drunk on pleasure, dizzy and desperate. Every touch, every word from him is a hit of pure ecstasy, and I crave more.

My hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer. “Fuck,” I moan, the word thick with need. He responds instantly, his lipsfinding my neck. He bites down again, lightly but deliberately, his fangs sinking deeper. A rush of venom floods my veins, igniting a wildfire that burns through me, consuming every thought, every breath. My body shakes, muscles clenching and trembling under the weight of desperate, aching need.

Grayson chuckles, dark and low, the sound sliding over my skin like silk edged with steel. It’s not just the sound—it’s the way he owns it, the dangerous, commanding edge curling through his voice. I’m drawn to that darkness as much as I am to Ben’s brilliant light, Shadow’s unpredictable chaos, and Tomas’ steady, moonlit glow. Each of them is a piece of me, and I need every last one of them.

“So eager,” he taunts, his voice husky with the same need that’s tearing through me. He kisses his way down my body, untying my robe with a single, deliberate pull of the sash. His fingers trail along my skin, teasing, avoiding the place I need him most. I’d almost forgotten how Grayson does this—how he edges me until I’m a quivering mess, until I can come undone from just the whisper of his breath on my skin.

A whimper escapes me, my hips bucking toward him. “Please,” I beg, the word barely coherent, broken by need.

His eyes meet mine, glittering with his own hunger. He holds my gaze, a predator savoring his prey. “Please, Grayson,” I whisper again, the words trembling on my lips like a prayer.

He finally gives in, just a little, his fingers slipping between my legs, finding me wet and ready. My breath catches as his thumb circles my clit, maddeningly slow, never quite touching it directly. I wriggle, desperate to get closer, but he laughs softly, pressing his forearm across my hips to hold me still. The room tilts as I climb higher and higher, teetering on the edge but never allowed to fall.

“Are you ready to come for me, Lover?” His voice is strained, his eyes fixed on mine, tracing every flicker of pleasure thatcrosses my face. “Gods, you like it when I call you that, don’t you? You smell like heaven… so gods-damned tight and soft and wet. I want to taste you, fill you…”

He stops teasing my clit and presses a long finger inside me, stretching me with deliberate slowness. “Would you like that, Sunday? Tell me where you want me.” A second finger follows, filling me perfectly, as his thumb resumes its maddeningly slow circles.

Words are beyond me now—I can only whimper, my hips bucking against his restraint.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I thought I’d built you up in my mind, turned you into an impossibility.” His fingers thrust deeper, harder, drawing a cry from my lips. “Tell me how this feels. Always tell me what you need, Lover—harder, faster, more. I exist to worship you.”

He sure knows how to say all the right things. I almost want to tell him,You can stop now, we’re at peak feelings, but I don’t. Because part of me needs this—needs to hear it, again and again. There’s a part of me that will always wonder if I’m enough, if I truly deserve this kind of devotion. And that part? It’s endlessly greedy—for his words, his touch, the reassurance he delivers so beautifully.

But then Grayson pushes me further up the bed, and his mouth joins his fingers. His tongue swirls around my clit, and I lose track of everything—my thoughts, my worries—dissolving into pure sensation. Heat rolls over me in a slow, lazy wave as he laves venom onto me, drenching my clit in a slippery, psychoactive haze. Maybe there’s blood, too, but I can’t find a single thread of concern to pull at. My body tightens, pressure building, the orgasm rising and churning, a dam ready to burst.

“Grayson,” I cry out, my voice hoarse and raw with need. “I’m so close, baby. Please, just a little more.”

He pulls back, his eyes gleaming with near-sadistic satisfaction. “Not yet.”

The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers sliding through me fill the room as he keeps me balanced on the edge, impossibly close but never enough. My cheeks flush hot, and I resist the urge to hide my face when he swipes through my slick folds again and again, drawing out my desperation.

I start begging in earnest, shameless now. “Please, I need it so badly. Let me come, please. I’ll do anything…” And in this moment, I would do bad things for an orgasm. Need rides me hard, shoving reason to the furthest edges of my mind. “Anything, Grayson,” I whine, my voice loud and broken against the filthy sounds of his touch.

“You can take it a little longer. I know you can.” His voice drips with dark promise, each word sending a shiver through me. “Just think about how good it’s going to feel when I finally push myself inside you.”

But he isn’t pushing anything inside me right now, my inner brat pouts, and it’s infuriating.

A shudder rolls through me, his words unraveling what little control I have left. My breath falters, and I clench around the emptiness, desperate for the fullness he’s withholding.

He inhales deeply, dragging his nose up the curve of my neck while his fingers continue their maddening dance, touching everywhere except where I need him most. Then he pauses to yank off his borrowed sweatpants, and I take a moment to savor the sight of a completely naked Grayson Marchese.

My golden god, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle. Out of all my mates, Grayson’s the one with an eight-pack and those V-shaped grooves that dip from his hip bones to his lower abs—an Adonis belt I want to trace with my tongue, all the way down to his perfect, perfect cock.

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