Page 37 of A Touch of Darkness

He pulls his face from her breasts and lets out a guttural moan of pleasure as she sinks further down on his shaft. When he throws his head back, I catch sight of his parted lips—and the elongated fangs that glint under the low light. They’re sharp, curving subtly like polished ivory, and for a beat, I’m captivated by the way his canines graze his lower lip. There’s a primal edge to them, an unmistakable signal of his nature, that stands in stark contrast to the smooth, sensual roll of his body against hers. Then he springs up again, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his rock-hard length sliding in and out of her, but my eyes keep returning to those fangs—eerie and fascinating all at once. The two of them seem to move faster, more quickly than I’ve ever seen two humans move. It’s almost as if time slows down for me yet goes in double time for them. The sounds coming from their bodies is unlike any I’ve ever heard. A sloppy, wet noise that somehow makes my stomach churn but also erupt in butterflies at the same time. She continues to work him, to pleasure him in a way I’ve never been privy to in real life, her ass rippling each time she allows him to bottom out inside of her. I clench my thighs together, needing the friction, desperately wanting.

Holy fuck.

I’ve never seen anything more erotic in all my life.

She arches her back again, leaning backward and resting her hands on his knees, continuing to take him at a voracious speed, and the sounds they make together are like a symphony of ecstasy. My eyes never leave the two of them as he roughly flips her over, an animalistic sound ripping from his throat as he gets on top of her, drilling into her like his life depends on it. She moans his name over and over again, sounding almost prayer-like as it spills from her dark red lips.

And then, just as he pumps into her one last time, they both come apart, a brilliant finale to a secret show I was never meant to witness.

I ache everywhere, every single inch of my body pulsing and thrumming and coming alive. Slick wetness and formidable heat coat the area between my thighs, and I need a moment to catch my breath—but I don’t get one.

“Enjoy the show, darling?” the woman calls out as she stands, revealing her pert nipples and full breasts. Her vagina has abundant hair covering it, but I can tell her lips are swollen and needy as Lucian’s cum runs down the insides of her thighs.

I immediately step backward, try to think of an excuse for why I stood there watching. Of fucking course, they knew I was there—how stupid am I? I stood around like a lost idiot who couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Moron.

“You aren’t a moron, darling. Merely a mortal with a kink for voyeurism.” She flashes a bright smile my way, her long, pin-straight blonde hair sticking to her slick, dewy skin. I’m drawn to the puncture marks on her neck, where blood slowly trickles down like a stream. “Who is your pet, Luc?” she asks with her eyes alight, almost glowing as she drinks me in. Her red lips are destroyed from their passionate affair, the color marring her pale skin, and she looks so amused by my meager presence.

“She isn’t a pet, Vivienne,” he grunts, pulling on a pair of dress slacks as he eyes me. “Get out of my house.”

With that, she swipes her clothes from where they lay strewn on the floor and saunters—naked—out of the library while I watch like a timid child. I can’t help but stare at Lucian without even the slightest restraint. His body is like something out of a dream.

Every muscle seems intricately carved with brutal content, a meticulous balance of strength and elegance that’s almost hypnotic. Each slope and line a testament to something ageless and untouchable. His skin gleams faintly in the dim light, pale but not sickly—more like marble, alive with subtle shadows thatshift as he moves. Scars lace his torso, faint silver lines that map across his chest and ribs, each one a quiet testament to something I don’t think I’m meant to understand.

I swallow hard, feeling my pulse hammering in my ears as my gaze drifts lower. His shoulders are broad, tapering to a lean waist, and the way his muscles move—subtle, fluid—is insufferably distracting. My breath hitches when he exhales, the sound too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

His chest rises and falls with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each breath impossibly controlled. The sharp angles of his collarbones lead down to the planes of his abdomen, defined but not exaggerated. He moves slightly, and the faint sheen lingering on his skin glimmers, catching in the candlelight as it flickers, making him seem more ethereal than human.

But it’s his presence that keeps me rooted me to this spot. Even half-dressed, barefoot, and unguarded, there’s nothing soft or vulnerable about him. He radiates something ancient, something dangerous, like a predator biding its time.

His gaze meets mine, and my breath catches. There’s something in the way he looks at me—an intensity that burns through the space between us.

“You’re staring, Sylvie,” he says, his voice low, tinged with utter amusement.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to choke out. “I wasn’t?—”

He chuckles, and I believe it may be the first time I’ve ever seen amusement alive in his features. His smirk on his lips—sharp and knowing—makes my stomach flip

Shaking his head, he walks over to his desk and casually leans against it, seemingly unbothered, as if this is all perfectly normal. A student watching her vampire professor fucking another vampire in his Gothic castle. Watching the blood drip down her neck, the way he impaled her on his impossibly large cock…

He arches a brow, and the corner of his mouth tugs higher. “You were. But don’t stop on my account.”

His teasing makes it worse—if possible. My nerves are already frayed, and now my heart is racing like I’m caught in something very dangerous, something I can’t untangle myself from.

“I was just—” My words falter. What can I even say to move past this?

He doesn’t press me, though the way his gaze lingers feels more deliberate now, like he’s finding pure enjoyment out of watching me squirm.

“Relax, Sylvie. It’s just skin.”

His tone is light, but there’s something beneath it, something precarious that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a steep cliff. I force myself to look away, my hands twisting nervously at my sides, but the image of his naked body, of his beautiful naked body, is burned into my mind.

“I really am sorry,” I say. Words continuing to fail me. “I just. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought maybe you’d be up. I?—”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Sylvie. It’s okay. Although…” he stops himself and I look at him, confused. Unaware of where he was going with his sentiment.

“Although?” I edge closer to where he rests before I can stop myself, as if he’s calling me subconsciously toward him.

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