Haunted by the King of Death (Eternal Mates #11) - Felicity Heaton
Grave’s fangs sliced into the supple female flesh beneath his lips. She cried softly into his ear, her body arching forwards to press against the full length of his. He flexed his fingers against her curves and drew her closer still, closed his eyes and breathed in deep, silencing the buzzing in his mind as the warmth of her chased the cold away.
The mark on his back tingled and he ignored it.
He pulled his fangs free, wrapped his mouth around the twin puncture marks and drew slowly on her blood.
His eyebrows pinched in a frown.
Not the sweet taste of nectar she had promised, but the bitter taste of ashes coated his tongue as her hot blood filled his mouth.
He swallowed it with a grimace and resisted the urge to snarl against her throat, focused instead on feeding and on her. The buzzing in his skull grew stronger, destroying the brief moment of calm, and his back began to burn, fire pulsing across it in a way that made him able to picture the mark on it as it chased along the lines.
Not the female in his arms, but the one who had done this to him.
Reduced him to this.
A snarl curled up his throat and he sank his fangs back into the female, felt her tense and heard her gasp, but didn’t notice either as he gave his voyeur the same show as always.
A vision of fury and hatred.
Grave tore his teeth from the willing female’s neck and shoved her back. She staggered but moaned, too high from his bite to care how he treated her, too deep under his spell. He tore the skimpy red dress from the brunette, exposing her breasts and the tiny excuse for panties, nothing more than a scrap of scarlet material. She whimpered as he palmed her full breasts and he smiled slowly as the buzzing in his mind, the burning on his back, grew stronger.
Oh yes, his voyeur was very aware of his actions, was focused on him now.
He hoped the bitch got an eyeful.
Scarlet spilled down his blood host’s chest from the multiple wounds on her throat and he growled as he swooped on that trail, lapping it up and following the lines back to the puncture marks. She moaned sweetly, writhed and rocked in his arms, and he clutched her to him, planted both hands on her bare backside and dug his claws into the peachy globes.
He licked the wounds, each sweep harder than the last, and then let out a feral snarl as he sank his fangs back into her. She jerked against him, her keening cry echoing around the sparsely furnished drawing room. Ecstasy. He could feel it in her.
But he couldn’t find it for himself.
The bitch had made sure of that.
He pulled his fangs free and bit down again, and again, and each time the female shuddered and cried in pleasure, began to sob as she wriggled in his arms, the scent of her arousal permeating the air. The rougher he was with her, the more she got off on it, and he had chosen her for that exact reason.
If he had to do this, if he had to use something that haunted his every waking hour, and sleeping one, then he would make sure that the one sharing the moment with him witnessed just how brutal he could be.
Just what she had made him.
He tore into the female’s neck, rending deep puncture wounds that spilled blood like a waterfall down her bare breasts, the warm liquid soaking into his black shirt and sticking it to