Even under the dulling fluorescent lights of the classroom, she was radiant.
“Sit up on the table,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Please.”
She did as he asked and crossed her legs… and, holy hell, didn’t that robe of hers fall open, splitting wide up to her thigh. When she tried to close the gap, he whispered, “Leave it.”
Her hands stilled, then shifted back and flattened on the table to support her upper weight. “Is this all right?”
“Don’t. Move.”
Phury took his time as he drew her, the chalk becoming his hands going over her body, lingering on her neck and the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hip and the long, smooth expanse of her legs. He made love to her as he transferred her image onto the blackboard, the sound of the chalk a rasping noise.
Or maybe that was his breath.
“You’re very good,” she said at one point.
He was too busy and greedy with his eyes to answer her, too preoccupied with what he imagined himself doing to her when he was finished.
After an eternity that lasted only a moment, he stepped back and measured his work. Perfection. It was her, but more-although there was a sexual undertone to the composition that even she had to see. He didn’t want to shock her, but he couldn’t have changed that aspect of the work. It was in every line of her body and her pose and her face. She was the feminine sexual ideal. At least for him.
“It’s done,” he said roughly.
“Is that… who I am?”
“It’s how I see you.”
There was a long silence. Then she said with a kind of astonishment, “You think I’m beautiful.”
He traced the lines he’d drawn. “Yes. I do.” Silence expanded the distance between them, making him feel awkward. “Well, now…” he said. “We can’t leave it up like this-”
“Please! No!” she said, putting her hand out. “Let me look at me a little longer. Please.”
Okay. Fine. Whatever she wanted. Hell, at this point, she could have told his heart not to beat, and the thing would have complied with the order quite cheerfully. She had become his control tower, his body’s master, and anything she told him to do or say or get for her, he would. No questions asked. No care of the means.
In the back of his mind, he knew that all of this was characteristic of a bonded male: Your female commanded you and that was that. Except he couldn’t have bonded with her. Right?
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, her green eyes on the board.
He turned to face her. “That is you, Cormia. You’re like that.”
Her eyes flared, and then, as if she felt uncomfortable, her hands went to the slit in her robe and closed it.
“Please, no,” he whispered, repeating her words. “Let me look a little longer. Please.”
Tension boomed between them, positively pounded.
“I’m sorry,” he said, annoyed with himself. “I didn’t mean to make you feel-”
Her hands released, and that luscious white fabric fell open with such complete obedience, he wanted to pat it on the head and give it a bone.
“Your scent is so strong,” she said in a deep voice.
“Yes.” He put the chalk down and inhaled, smelling jasmine. “So is yours.”
“You want to kiss me, don’t you.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
“You untucked your shirt. Why?”
“I’m hard. I got hard the moment you came into the office.”
She hissed at that, her eyes traveling down his chest to his hips. As her lips parted, he knew exactly what she was thinking about: him coming into her hand.
“It’s amazing,” she said softly. “When I’m around you like this, nothing seems to matter. Nothing but…”
He walked toward her. “I know.”
As he stopped in front of her, she looked up. “Are you going to kiss me?”
“If you’ll let me.”
“We shouldn’t,” she said, her hands going up to his chest. She didn’t push him away, though. She gripped his shirt as if it were a lifeline. “We should not.”
“True.” He brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.
His desperation to get in her in some way, any way, shorted out his frontal lobe. What he felt as he stood before her was all about the base core of him, the base needs of a male. “But this can be private, Cormia. This can be just you and me.”
“Private… I like private.” She tilted her chin up, offering him what he wanted.
“Me, too,” he growled as he sank down onto his knees.
She seemed confused. “I thought you wanted to kiss me…”
“I do.” He slipped his palms around her ankles and ran them up and down her calves. “I’m dying to.”
“But then why-”
He gently uncrossed her legs, and bless that damn robe’s heart, but didn’t it fall completely to the sides, showing him everything: Her hips and her thighs and the little slit he needed so badly.
Phury licked his lips as he slid his hands up the inside of her legs, spreading them slowly, inexorably. With an erotic sigh, she leaned back to give him room, reassuring him that she was right there with this, ready for it just as he was.
“Lie back,” he said. “Lie back and stretch out.”
Oh, fuck… She was smooth as cream for him, easing back until she was lying down on the table.
“Like this?”
“Yeah… exactly like that.”
He ran his palm down the back of one of her legs and extended her foot so it rested on his shoulder. The kissing started at her calf and followed the path that his hands caressed, going higher and higher. He paused at midthigh and double-checked to see if she was truly okay. She was watching him with huge green eyes, her fingers up to her lips, her breath going in and out on a pant.
“You all right with this?” he asked in a low rasp. “Because once I start, it’s going to be hard to stop, and I don’t want to scare you.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“The same thing you did to me last night with your hand. Except I’m going to use my mouth.”
She moaned, her eyes rolling back. “Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe…”
“Is that yes?”
“Yes.”
He reached up for the robe’s tie. “I’m going to take care of you. Trust me.”
And, shit, yeah, he knew he would. Some part of him knew with absolute certainty that he was going to pleasure her, even though he hadn’t done this before.
He released the tie and parted her robe.
Her body was revealed to him, from her high, tight breasts to the flat expanse of her stomach to the lovely pale lips of her sex. As her hand went down and rested on the mound of her sex, she was the drawing he’d done the day before, everything sexual and feminine and powerful… only she was flesh-and-blood real.
“Jesus… Christ.” His fangs punched out into his mouth, reminding him that he hadn’t fed in a while. As a noise came up his throat that was both a demand and a plea, he wasn’t sure how much of the moan was because of her sex and how much was because of her blood.
Although did the divisions really matter?
“Cormia… I need you.”
The way she shifted her legs apart was a gift like nothing that had ever been wrapped and tagged for him: As she opened herself a little further, he could see the pink core that he was after. She was glistening already.
He was going to add to that.
With a growl, he lunged down and put his mouth to her, going right for the heart of her body.
They both cried out. As her hands speared into his hair, he gripped her thighs hard and moved in even further. She was so warm against his lips, warm and wet, and he made her warmer and wetter as he French-kissed her sex. While she moaned, instinct overtook them both, paving the way for him to lap at her and for her to roll her hips.
God, the sounds were incredible.
The tasting was even more so.
As he looked up over her stomach to her breasts, he had to get at her little nipples. Reaching forward, he pinched them gently then soothed them with his thumbs.
The way she arched nearly had him orgasming. It was just too much.