Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,12

out and put the middle finger in instead, which is a little thicker. She gasps again. I feel her pussy clenching around my finger. I feel the resistance of the parts of her that have never been breached before.

With my finger inside her, I slowly rub her clit again. She turns her face against my neck, eyes closed and lips pressed against my skin.

I rub a little harder, sliding my finger in and out of her.

She makes sounds like that little kitten in the closet—anxious and desperate. Her hands are still pinned. All she can do is move her hips half an inch, squeezing tight around my finger.

I can feel her climax building. I see the flush sweeping over her skin. I hear her gasping against my neck. I see her legs starting to shake.

As she starts to cum, she bites down hard on my shoulder, her sharp teeth almost breaking the skin. She lets out a cry only partially muffled by my shoulder.

Her pussy grips me tight. My finger is as wet as if I dipped it in oil. That’s the only reason I can still move it. Her whole body is trembling now, not just her legs.

At last she relaxes with a long sigh. I kiss her again, tasting the pheromones on her breath.

At that moment someone knocks on the door.

“Simone?” a female voice calls.

I jump up from the bed.

Before Simone can even reply, “Just a minute!” I’m already through the French doors, over the balcony railing, dropping down to the deck below.

I sprint off across the grounds, the scent of Simone on my fingers, my lips, and my skin.

5

Simone

I’m in so much trouble.

When I first kissed Dante, it was a wild impulse at the end of a bizarre event that I thought would be nothing more than a bubble in time—effervescent, and gone forever once the bubble popped.

Of course, I thought about him afterward. Constantly, in fact. But I never expected to see him again.

Then he broke into my room, and everything changed.

My universe swapped positions. Dante became the new reality. And everything else seemed as fragile as that bubble in the wind.

He consumed me entirely.

I lay awake all night, thinking about him.

I could smell his scent on my sheets—like cardamom and fir, spice and wood. I swear he left a dent in my mattress from his bulk.

I pressed my face into that dent, remembering.

His body on top of mine was overwhelming. The sheer size of him almost terrifying. Every time I touched a part of him—his boulder-like shoulder, or his bicep bigger than a softball—I couldn’t believe how thick and dense the muscles were.

His stubble was rough. It scratched my face and chest. He kissed me like an animal, thrusting his tongue into every part of my mouth. But he was gentle when he put his fingers inside of me. Like he knew no one had ever done that before.

And that orgasm . . . oh my god.

I tried to replicate it two or three more times later that night when I couldn’t sleep. I nuzzled my face into the pillow, smelling his scent, and I tried to remember exactly how he touched me. But my soft little hand was nothing like his huge calloused one, each of his fingers thicker than two or three of mine together.

It was maddening.

I had to have more of him.

I felt like I’d die if I didn’t get it.

But I was totally powerless. I had no way of finding him again.

Then, today, someone sent fifty pink roses to the house. There was no card. No name on the delivery.

I knew it was for me. The roses were almost exactly the color of my dress, the night of the gala. I knew they were from Dante. I knew he’d come find me again.

Tonight I’m supposed to go to a dinner for the Young Ambassadors. Mama asks me if I’m feeling well enough to go. When she heard me cry out in my room, I told her I fell asleep and had a nightmare. Of course, she assumes I’m traumatized from my brief kidnapping.

“I’m fine, Mama,” I promise her. “I really want to go.”

She looks at me skeptically. “Are you sure?” she says. “You look . . . feverish.”

“I’m sure! Please, Mama. I hate being cooped up at the house.”

She hesitates, then nods. “Alright. I’ll have the car ready for you at eight.”

“Thank you.”

I get dressed almost an hour early. Even though there’s no real reason to think this, I’m certain that