I can't wrench myself free.
With horror, I realize what he's about to do when his hands begin threading up my calves. He catches my ankle when I aim a kick at his chest, and sets it aside with terrifying gentleness. "He did say you were skittish and it ruined the mood." Kneeling, his face comes around my stomach. He parts my robe delicately, watching the in and out of my belly as I hyperventilate. "Lucky for you, my one virtue is patience."
His mouth clamps around my navel in a kiss-bite.
I slam my knee up, hoping to catch his jaw and shatter it. But he grips both my thighs harshly, forcing them still with such strength, it dawns on me how much of a joke it must have been for us to ever think we might have won a war against them.
He holds me like I am made of porcelain. Like he could shatter me with a single tap of his strength. And I know he can. Any tighter and he'll snap my bones.
But his mouth...
His mouth is soft. Hot. Insistent. He kisses my navel and loves it with his tongue. Slowly, surely, like he has all the time in the world.
My legs begin trembling. Pheromones, I tell myself. It's his aura. It's the fear and lust they exude. I tell myself this again, in a chant. This is not what I want. I hate Prince Ruin. I hate his touch. I hate his mouth. I hate him so much.
My nipples tighten.
This is not what I want--
My core clenches.
This is not what I want.
My spine arches as his mouth moves lower, skimming the edge of the pristine white lace thong Samara had chosen. His fangs hook on its hem and he pulls it down to stop around my knees.
"Please," I say, throat closing around a sob. But a moan escapes anyway when his thumb finds my clit. He breathes against my middle and it feels as sensitive as sandpaper being scraped against me. I jerk my hips back, away from his mouth, but he follows me and buries his face against my heat. And sinks his teeth into my clit.
When the Vampyrs first invaded, we didn't know what they were. The humans took the brunt of the 'wild animal attacks'. Women, mostly. The men were left for dead, children turned into rabid, hungry animals, but the women, they were left alive.
They looked it, but they weren't really there. They barely registered their families had been wiped out. Or that their necks and bodies had been ravaged. Instead, when you asked them what happened, there were usually unintelligible garbles and demonstrations.
The women often got on their knees and stripped, crawled after anything that had any kind of heat and said, "Won't you give me more, Master? Touch me, Mistress. I'll die if you don't, Master."
Mindless, is what Vampyrs made them. There was no amount of therapy that could help bring them back to normal.
They typically avoided Werewolves, because to an extent, they thought us immune to their pheromones. We thought we were, too. But meeting the royals, the oldest kinds, the Vampyrs that weren't turned, but were bred from generation after generation of sin and sacrilege, made us realize our immunity was shit.
Being natural enemies, two opposing forces of nature, it granted us some resistance to them. But against the pure breds, it was all that. Resistance. Which is why we had those many rules against them. Don't look a vampire too long in his eyes. Don't lurk outside later than dusk. Wear the scent of vervain and you'll be safe. Eat enough of it and you will not be drained of your blood.
But the truth is, when a vampire royal got his teeth into you, there is really no escape.
My head falls back against the post. A war begins in my mind. Fight. Why should I fight? This... This is bliss. This is everything. I feel ecstatic.
His very essence pours into my senses, drowning out reason, replacing logic with need. A haze coils around my thoughts, tugging them apart thread by thread until I can no longer remember what I am meant to resist.
Oh gods. Sweet gods. Forgive me, for I have sinned.
The feeding pulls at something deep inside me, a pulse I didn't know existed. Each draw of his mouth sends a ripple spiraling upward through my body, tightening every nerve, every muscle, every breath. My skin feels too thin, too alive, too open.
I can't think. I can barely breathe.
All I feel is him.
His hunger. His focus. His dark amusement. He hasn't even licked me yet.
Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading in slow, devastating waves. I try to suppress the sound rising in my throat, but the bite pulls it free. It is a nasty mewl. A soft, helpless, "More. Ruin me some more."
That fleeting part of me that didn't want this is wrapped in shame and embarrassment. But the part of me that is present, the part of me that he has created is filled with carnality, a depraved pleasure as his tongue pushes into me.
One. Two. Three slick plunges, in and out.
My hands tremble. My legs shake.
Four. Five.
My body melts against him, my hips moving to the deadly rhythm of his mouth. With every flick, I feel myself simply... cease. I can no longer remember why I fought him in the first place.
You hate him. You should stop him, a small voice echoes in my mind.