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The sight is like nothing else.

I honestly consider telling him to do it again.

But thankfully, I don’t have to. More spills over his lips, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He groans and gives in, licking lasciviously over every last bit he can find. Then when there’s none left to be had, he groans out some words he’s clearly been trying to hold in. “Make a fist,” he says.

Even though he could just grab my hand and do it himself.

He could do anything now. He does nothing but wait, wait, wait, his body tense, his eyes never leaving that trail of blood. Ravenously hungry, yet surviving on scraps. So I squeeze, just like he asked. Just like he begged. I bleed freely for him, and watch him groan and take it all, greedily.

Good boy, I think.

And want to be amused, over that idea. But somehow, it does something different to me instead. I find myself getting closer, and closer, one hand on his thigh suddenly, even though I don’t recall telling it to go there. I don’t even remember dropping the stake—but I must have, because all I have in my hand is him.

And really high up, too.

So high up, in fact, that I think it makes him react.

His body arches in this new, almost lewd way, and I can’t lie: it does something to me to see it. Like the warmth that sting made, only stronger, more clearly defined. Arousal, my brain tries to tell me. But I refuse to admit it might be right, I can’t admit it might be right, all I’m doing here is making sure he safely sates his hunger.

I definitely don’t move my hand closer.

I really have no idea how he manages to make contact.

All I understand is the way it feels when he does. I get the slick slide of his tongue over my skin, and every inch of my body electrifies. It sings, even as he tries to apologize. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He gasps. But I can’t accept, or even really say anything at all. I’m far too busy damn near humming with the need for him to do it again. And I can’t even fault myself for it, either.

It’s like tasting sugar after a thousand years of salt.

My whole body was parched, and now something has ended the drought. It’s woken me up. This is what pleasure is supposed to feel like, I think, despite the fact that it was just one little lick. It was nothing at all, really.

And yet it was everything at the same time.

Astounding—and so much so that I can’t help wondering if it was a fluke. A nothing, that won’t ever do the same thing to me if he does it again. Though of course in order to tell for sure, I’d have to experience it a second time. Just to see, I find myself thinking. Just in case it wasn’t really anything.

It’s almost like being hypnotized.

Only here there’s just me doing this to myself. He isn’t making me.

In fact, when I move my hand even closer he tries to turn his head away. His eyes catch mine, wide and near fearful, his will clearly hovering on the brink. And when he does finally break, he doesn’t do much. Just a little lick, far more tentative than the one that came before. Not even sensuous, the way the first had been.

Yet somehow it makes me gasp aloud.

Now I’m the one trying to pull away.

Only it’s far too late for that. My mind moves, but my body stays right where it is. Like it’s found something it craves, and can’t imagine not getting its fill. And, it seems, he does want to fill me. He watches me as he moves. He’s cautious about it. But that mouth meets my hand.

Then he insinuates it against me there, long and slow.

Though even as I think so, I know it’s more than an insinuation.

It’s a kiss, it’s a kiss; he kisses my palm like it’s my lips. His head tilts, his eyes drift closed. And in the middle of that slow rock of his mouth, the part and slide of it, I get a little glimpse of his tongue easing over my skin. The slick curl of it, licking and licking over me.

It’s quite simply the lewdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

In truth, I think it might even be the sight of it alone that sends me spiraling.

Though I know the sensation itself is also something else. It’s so intense I have to dig my nails into my palm to stop it. It just seems to build and build and then, oh god, then he sucks gently, he draws blood from me, he drinks from me, and I don’t know what happens when he does.

Pleasure just bursts through me—purely from that one point of contact at first. But it spreads, as he keeps going. It goes harder and harder, until I’m shaking. It’s all I can do not to sink down into him, or grab his shoulder for support.