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He’s taking it so deep... I can feel his throat clenching around every inch.

The rage rises again, tangled with the need to possess and not be possessed. My hips begin to drive against his head, thrust after thrust, heedless of the moans muffled against my skin.

I open my eyes for a second, and the image before me makes my stomach knot. He is on his knees before me, eyes clouded, his hand gripping his own length and stroking it frantically, saliva trailing from his lips.

What kind of vision is this?

My breath fails me, my heart hammers in my chest, I am unable to look away from that incredible, indecent scene.

I move my hips faster, feeling his hand follow my every sway.

“God... what are you doing to me? Stop. No... hell... don’t stop. How are you... how can it be this wet?”

He constricts his throat and I respond by seizing his hair with force.

I could become addicted to this.

He increases the speed, and every choked groan that breaks against my flesh makes my stomach tighten and my limbs pulse.

No, damn it—I already am.

My body explodes.

The heat rushes through me, and hot jets spill into Dorian’s mouth. I feel his pressure, his hand continuing to move with precision, and then the swallow, slow, satisfied.

I take a step back, and another strangled groan escapes Dorian’s now-free mouth. His hand doesn’t stop immediately, it continues to move frantically until, moments later, he spills onto the rug.

His face is flushed, his lips swollen, his still-damp hair plastered to his forehead. I remain leaned against the wall, my labored breath still struggling to find a rhythm, feeling my skin burn under the gaze of this man who stares at me as if I were a vision.

38

Under the Throat

Evander

Itap the armrest with my fingers. One. Two. Three times. Then again.

Dorian told me to wait here.

He said a moment, then he vanished toward the kitchens.

A moment has already passed.

My fingers accelerate, I realize I’m clenching my jaw when I feel one tooth slide over the other. I stand up abruptly, the robe opens slightly at my knees as I take a step, reach out, and seize the lantern. The metal is lukewarm, the flame trembling as I move before it stabilizes. I cross the corridor, the kitchens are ahead.

Dorian is there.

And I have no intention of sitting around waiting.

I enter the kitchens and the air changes, smelling of hot iron and spent wood. The hearth breathes softly, with every puff, a flake of ash rises and falls. Two candles flicker on a wooden table scarred by knives. He is before the fireplace, kneeling, he slides the poker into the ash with a sharp sound, then with a deeper scrape. The gray surface opens, and beneath it pulses a vivid red. The heart of the fire.

His burgundy robe slides from his thighs as he leans forward, the fabric stretches and then yields, exposing pale skin that the glow of the embers colors in copper. His hair falls over his forehead, cut sharply by the darkness at his back.

I set the lantern on the table, the glass clinks softly. The sound makes him turn.

“You forgot my presence.”

He impales a slice of white bread, far too thick, onto the toasting fork and brings it near the fire.