Page 33 of Blackthorn

He said, “Relax, sweetness. It is a fine dagger and a finer place to keep it.”

Shadows hid where her thighs touched. He wanted to part them, to kneel at the feet of his huntress and worship but held himself back.

Charlotte’s posture relaxed, slowly blossoming as he admired her. She licked her lips, chest rapidly rising and falling.

“One last thing,” he said, fingers twitching with the need to unpin her hair. “Let down your hair.”

She followed his order. Dark curls tumbled down, firelight gleaming red on a few strands.

He gently tucked a lock behind her ear and leaned in to whisper, “Perfection.”

She gave a breathy sigh as he pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear, then shivered as his lips traveled along her jaw and down the curve of her neck. He licked and kissed, feeling her pulse thrum just under the surface. Heat radiated from her.

His arms wrapped around her. She was soft, but he felt the strength in her body, generous and giving, as he pressed her against him. She responded so favorably to his touch with no hint of revulsion. Only need and hunger. The temptation to bite was almost too much to bear. A desperate part of his mind tried to reason that one sip would not kill him. The poison would slow his reaction and dull his senses briefly, an acceptable price to pay if it meant tasting her.

He nearly gave in when she moaned as her pulse just beneath her jaw fluttered under his tongue.

She’s attracted to monsters.

The monster within him howled to sink his fangs into her tender skin, gorge himself on the taste of her, and drink his fill, damn the consequences.

“Do you like monsters, Charlotte?”

“I like this one.”

“Show me.”

Charlotte

“Show you?” Charlotte asked. Wasn’t she exposed enough?

She should be embarrassed, standing naked and brazen in front of Draven, but his gaze held her firmly in place. In this light, his eyes were scarlet. It was…Oh, for all the books she’d read, she didn’t have the correct words. Intense, yes. Hungry, very. Appreciative. Mesmerizing. Adoring.

There was nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he said. “Show me how to please you.”

He steered her toward the bed. Charlotte gladly followed. The sheets were cool against her overheated skin as he laid her down.

He licked her throat, groaning with want. His lips drifted down to the valley between her breasts. His tongue explored the heavy swell of her before circling her aching nipples. She gasped at the sensation when he took the tip into his mouth, his touch as cold as the winter air.

She arched her back and grabbed his head, knocking loose the ribbon that tied it back. Pale silvery hair cascaded upon his shoulders; the silken strands escaped through her fingers, like trying to catch moonlight.

Draven raised his head, the expression on his face feral. The mask of control had slipped and offered a glimpse of the monster under his elegant façade.

He licked his lips and pulled her to the edge of the bed. His hands rested on either thigh, on the patch of exposed skin above her stockings. “Let me see. Open your legs.”

Charlotte was out of her depth. She enjoyed everything they’d done, but she was a novice being played with by a master. Briefly, she regretted that she had read more historical memoirs than sordid novels. No one spoke like Draven did outside one of those books. What experience did she have? A few hasty tumbles—fully clothed, by the way—and what she gleaned from the memoirs of Captain Beckford.

The captain had been frank about her love life—quite the scandal to a young Charlotte—and how much she enjoyed sex but never explicit. Sex happened in euphemisms and between entries.

What would Captain Beckford do?

Tell her lover what she wanted, often in tantalizing detail.

“I shouldn’t be the only one undressed,” Charlotte said, rising on her elbows. “I want to see you too.”

“Is that so?” he asked in a reserved, cool tone. The mask was back on.

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