Page 101 of Bite
He starts slow. Testing boundaries; testing me. He strikes with his hand first, then a crop, then a paddle– each impact a question, each pause an invitation to saymercy. But I don’t. I want it all: the pain, the pleasure, the way it dissolves the last fragments of shame.
Each sensation builds until I can barely tell where one ends and the next begins. I hold on, letting it consume me, wanting to know what lies beyond surrender.
Because this isn’t about pain. It’s about trust– about letting him see the parts of me no one else ever has.
I gasp and tremble, the sharp edge of pain melting seamlessly into pleasure. Each touch is a question, each strike followed by a tender caress that leaves me shaking and undone. When he finally pushes into me from behind, I practically sob with relief. He fills me in one smooth stroke, impossibly deep. Each thrust that follows is measured, controlled, but the edge in his restraint only makes it hotter. I can feel him holding back– feel the violence trembling in his muscles, sensing how close he is to losing control.
His body blankets mine, mouth finding my throat. When his fangs graze my skin, I tense, waiting for the shot of pain. It comes, but layered over the cresting pleasure it’s almost too much. I scream his name as I come undone beneath him, the world narrowing to the rush of his mouth, the pull of him drinking, and the dizzying surrender of giving everything I am.
Just as my climax ebbs, he pulls back, sealing the bite with a drag of his tongue. He frees my wrists from the cuffs, turning me on my back and removing the blindfold. The sight of him– mouth stained red, eyes burning with something primal– nearly undoes me all over again.
“Ready to taste my power,mea dulcis?” he growls.
I nod, trembling with need.
He brings his wrist to his mouth, bites down, and offers it to me.
“Drink,” he commands.
I hesitate for a half a second before my lips part. The taste is warm and metallic, humming with energy. I close my lips over his skin and suck, power flooding through me like liquid lightand overwhelming every sense. I canfeelhim– his hunger, his desire, the wild echo of my own emotions doubled and reflected back at me.
After a few sips, he retracts his wrist, sealing the wound. Then he parts my thighs, lines up, and sinks into me again. My back arches, toes curling as he starts riding my body slow and deep, his chest rumbling with a guttural groan.
“Can you feel it,mea dulcis?”
“Yes,” I pant.
The connection between us is impossible to contain, the rhythm of shared power thrumming through my veins.
He dips his head down to kiss me, our blood mixing on our tongues. It’s weirdly hot, erotic in a way that unlocks a kink I never knew I had. His hand slides between us, thumb circling my clit. Within seconds, I detonate again, inner walls clenching around him as he fucks into me harder, hips eventually stuttering as he finds his own release.
When it’s over, I’m shaking, drenched in sweat, blood, and tears I didn’t even realize I was crying. James gathers me in his arms, holding me close. We lie together tangled in black silk, and for a long time, neither of us speaks. Words aren’t needed. I’ve never felt so connected to another person; so profoundly complete.
Finally, I tilt my chin to gaze up at him. “What now?” I ask, voice gone hoarse.
His lips curve in a faint, knowing smile. “Now, we step into our power and rule,regina mea. Together.”
I close my eyes with a contented hum. “Together. I like the sound of that.”
James hits the lights, the room immediately descending into pitch black. His lips brush my temple, the faintest ghost of a smile against my skin. The world beyond us feels impossibly distant– like nothing exists outside of this vow, this moment.
It feels right. Steady.Safe.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along– the chance to be broken, remade, and pieced back together by someone who sees all of me, even in the dark.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
JAMES
I’m not sure when the library became our living room, but the evidence is all around me– Taylor’s discarded slippers beneath the armchair, a half-solved puzzle monopolizing the coffee table, and a mug of tea gone cold beside an open book.
It’s nearly midnight. The world beyond the windows is dark and cold, but in here, everything glows with warmth and light.
Taylor’s sprawled sideways on the sofa, her legs stretched along the cushions, head resting against my chest. I absentmindedly comb my fingers through her chestnut hair, watching the strands shine gold when they catch the firelight. Every now and then she lets out a sound– half sigh, half purr– that I could listen to for centuries.
Across from us, Dr. Faulkner lounges in an armchair, whiskey in hand. He’s dressed in his usual black, his briefcase resting on the low table between us. We’ve been discussing politics and the weather for the past half hour, circling the real reason he’s here.
