Blood Legacy by Vanessa Redmoon Page B

in deeper as I pulled him further into my mouth. Pain prickled where the claws broke through my skin; I felt like I was swimming above the pain, in a surreal stretch of time where nothing existed but Victor, pressed against me, pressed into me, scraping through me, filling me with power and passion.
    He stiffened, his muscles spasming in his shaft as he sank his teeth into the side of my knee. I held my breath in anticipation. “More,” he pleaded, around a mouthful of my skin. “More.” I braced myself. For a fleeting moment, I wondered just which of us was really in control here—the person bound to the iron cross, or the person without restraints?
    Then his climax ripped through me, filling my mouth with his hot seed.  Something ran down my legs—my own blood, from where he was biting me. I tensed, trying to make sense of what was happening as I tried not choke, and swallowed him down. He’d bitten me, hard enough to draw blood, of that I was sure—but he hadn’t extended his fangs. Surely not.
    Had he?
    Before I had a chance to ask, he pulled out of my mouth and spun the iron cross back up to the right side. My hair stuck to my face with sweat and some of his juices. “Victor—” I asked, gasping for breath. “Master—”
    He plunged his mouth into mine, silencing me with his tongue, as if he meant to lick every last drop of himself out of me. I tasted my own coppery blood on his lips. Something within me trembled like a live wire at that taste. Bleed me dry—I didn’t like the taste of blood, did I? But it only heightened my arousal, heat pulsing deep inside me, to taste where I had bled for him.
    I probed the edge of his teeth with my tongue. No sign of his fangs. I let myself slacken in my restraints and fall into the blissful feeling of his mouth, warm and spicy against mine.
    He reached down between us and traced my folds with the claw tips. I groaned, sinking my teeth into his lower lip. With a snarl, he pulled his mouth away from me and nestled his lips up against my ear. “Three,” he murmured.
    “Three?” I repeated. “Three what?”
    “That’s how many times I’m going to make you come for me.” He kneaded my swollen clitoris, interspersing the tender motions with the sharp bite of the claws. “Are you ready, little raven?”
    I managed a meager nod; the spiky, delirious taste of pleasure roiling through me offered me little chance to reply more than that.
    Victor’s other hand closed around my throat. “I asked ,” he snarled, spittle flecking my cheek, “if you were ready.” His massaging intensified.
    “Yes!” I cried.
    He slipped one clawed finger into my slit. “Then give me one.”
    I convulsed around his finger in delicious release. For a minute, there was not hing but dark, velvety pleasure; then, as my muscles relaxed, I felt everything with heightened senses—the spark of the candles, the tang of the night air, the warmth of Victor Bressov’s skin pressed against mine.
    “ Vorona ,” he whispered in my ear, as my lower body’s shuddering ceased. I did my best to give him a confused look, as exhausted as I was. “My native tongue,” he explained. “From before I was turned. It means ‘little raven.’”
    “I’ll try to take it as a compliment.”
    Victor grinned. “In time, I mean for you to take it as a command.” He stepped back from me and reached for his phallus, which was starting to stir again, and quickly sprang back to life as he stroked it. Then he knelt down and unlatched my ankles from the restraints at the bottom bars of the cross.
    “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he said, as he stood again, carrying one of my legs up with him. We kissed again as the tip of his cock prodded against my sex. “I hope you’ve dreamed of this, too.”
    He slid into me before I could answer, slick and firm, pressing against my walls perfectly, like a hand into a custom glove. I groaned as I stretched around him. It had been so long, and