Page 91 of The Blood that Binds Us

“Look at me.” His voice cuts through my howls of rapture. “Look at me while I make you come.”

I force my eyes to open and lower them to where Sin watches me intently, his erection straining against his pants as he brings me to orgasm with my own weapon. The last of my restraint shatters as ecstasy washes through me, and I allow the Black Art to claim me again. Sin slides the blade through my slick folds once more, letting me ride out my release until the very end, and then slowly pulls the handle out and sucks my cream from the hilt.

When he’s finished cleaning the knife with his mouth, he pulls me to my feet, his chest pressed to mine and his cock throbbing against my belly. He curves his hand under my jaw and parts my lips with his, letting me taste myself on his tongue, desire licking at my thighs all over again at the flavor in my mouth. My hands trace across his chest and around his muscular arms, arriving at the waist of his trousers where my fingers promptly work to unfasten them.

A guttural moan escapes his lips when I take him into my hand and curl my fingers around his girth. His head falls back to look at the ceiling as I stroke him, again and again, delighting in the impossible swelling of his cock as it beads and pulses in my palm.

Sin’s hand catches mine, and he spins me around so my back is towards him, his lips at my ear. “Grab my throne. And I suggest you hold on tight, little witch.”

I lean forward and grip the arms of the chair as he yanks my dress up so my full ass is exposed, rubbing against me and—

Pain thrashes through me as my pussystretchesaround his hardness, my fingers curling over the armrests and a deep moan spilling out of me. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust to the size of him before he’s pulling out and slamming into me a second time. Again.

And again.

Whatever animosity I was still harboring towards him, Sin fucks the last of it out of me, claiming me with each merciless thrust. I give it right back, grinding my ass against his hips, pulling his own grunts of pleasure from his lips, one after the other.

I whimper as he suddenly pulls out of me and look over my shoulder, but he snaps my head forward. A moment later, something clatters to the floor behind me, and I almost look when the smell of him invades my senses.

Sin’s blood, as fragrant as the hyacinths of early spring, permeates my nose, my tongue, my throat. I nearly go cross-eyed when he brings his arm to my mouth, blood pouring from the fresh wound on his forearm.

He sliced himself with the dagger.

“Drink,” he demands, his voice low and full of need.

My lips part over his arm now sobbing crimson rivulets, and my cunt throbs with the need to consume him, my chin going taut as I strain to keep my mouth off him.

“I want you to taste me while I fuck you. So be a good little bloodwitch and fuckingdrink,” he orders again.

Sin roars as I latch onto him and buries himself deep inside my warmth. I drink and drink and drink, moaning as his blood crawls down the back of my throat, coating it with his essence, and I grow wetter with each slurp as if his juice drips all the way to my pussy. I let him control me like this, allow him to show me just how much he hates and needs me at the same time, and with the taste of his blood sticky and sweet in my mouth, I soar to new heights.

The sound of my climax hurls the Black Art into his own release, and his cock spits into my core, flooding me with his warm cum. My head falls back to rest on his chest, and he wraps both arms around my front, our breath rapid and uneven.

I don’t know the exact moment it happened, but somewhere along the way, sparks ignited between us. As Sin buries his face into my shoulder, they rear up in an all-consuming fire, setting my heart ablaze and filling my body with ash.

And the worst part about loving him isn’t his need for control or violence. It’s knowing that no matter what he does, or who he hurts, my heart will still burn for him.

Water beads across his shoulders as I twist and wring out the cloth, tiny rivulets streaming down his beautiful, bare back. I knead my palms into his shoulder blades, my hands working tirelessly to loosen the knots twisted deep in his muscles.

Sin’s private bathhouse is lavish, the floor and tub both crafted of smooth stone, and benches inlaid into the walls for seating and dressing. A large cabinet with its doors propped open reveals a wide variety of oils and soaps, and a stack of neatly folded drying linens. Hints of rose and grapefruit rise from the steaming water, bleeding into our skin.

“You’re tense,” I murmur, digging my knuckles into a particularly deep knot beneath his right shoulder.

Sin sighs in agreement, and when I finish working the soreness from his body the best I can, I lean back and pull him with me so he rests against my chest. He’s been strangely quiet since we snuck away from our entanglement in the Great Hall to wash up in his bath. Perhaps the same thoughts plague him that nip away at my own mind like diseased vultures. Twice now, we’ve given ourselves over to carnal lust. Three times if you count the late-night debauchery on my balcony.

But if it’s only lust between us, why does it feel like Ineedhim? Like it’s no longer my beating heart keeping me here—it’s his.

“Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?” I ask, pressing the side of my face against his, my fingers drawing lazy circles across his chest.

His hands come down on top of mine, pinning them against his chest, his body a rock beneath me. Unmoving. Unfeeling. Exhaling sharply, he sits forward, escaping my arm prisons holding him against me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, this time with more force. Because the Black Art’s lack of words is beginning to frighten me, especially after what transpired between us less than an hour ago. I expected nothing less than his usual smug teasing once we fled from the castle in a fit of hushed laughter and darted through the light sprinkling of rain to his bath quarters.

With his back still towards me, he rubs both hands across his face and cradles his head in his hands for an extended beat. “You didn’t deserve any of this, Wren. None of it was fair to you. What I did to you…” he trails off, dragging his fingers down his cheeks before his hands plop into the water.

“No. It wasn’t. And neither was the way you were treated by those closest to you. That wasn’t fair to you either, and I think… I think maybe you’re seeing that people can andwillcare about you if you let them.Icare about you, Sin,” I whisper, the words feeling strange in my mouth now that I’m saying them out loud. “Maybe it’s wrong and maybe I shouldn’t,but I do.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t make excuses for me. I could have chosen differently. Done things differently. And I didn’t, and it’s too late, and I’msorry, Wren.” His voice cracks around my name, and my chest aches at the sound of his pain.

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