Taken by a Vampire (Vampire Queen) - By Joey W. Hill Page 0,83

focus. The characters were engaging, the historical setting well drawn. As the chapters progressed, she was absorbed more deeply into their romance . . . as well as the overload of sexual tension between them.

She was a swift reader, but on certain passages, she slowed down. A lot. Her mind started returning to the moment Evan and Niall had trapped her against the ladder to give her that first mark, two sets of male hands on her. Niall, fondling her breasts as they lay on the ground together, the wind rippling her hair across his forearm.

She stroked her cheek, her chin, down her throat, like this hero was doing to the heroine. Like Evan had done to her before he gave her that mark. Stephen rarely touched her face or neck, and now she did it again, feeling with some amazement how it roused nerve endings far below the range of that touch. The intensity of Evan’s gaze had captivated her, the way he watched her every reaction like it mattered. Mattered for reasons that had nothing to do with how other vampires perceived his power over her.

Sliding her hand down to her breast, she curved her fingers around it. That bare contact brought the nipple to an aching fullness, enhanced as she thought of Niall suckling it with the strong, heated pull of his mouth. Evan, holding her arms, biting into her throat as her hips rose in a plea to be filled by them both, shameless begging.

She’d been taught to masturbate to prepare her body for penetration if the vampire had no desire to arouse her himself. She’d also learned how to do it for the viewing pleasure of others. This was more than that, a desire to make Evan and Niall hard, to please them, to please herself, but not in a way that felt self-serving. It was something she’d never considered, let alone experienced. Yet it felt so familiar.

Even though she knew she should put the book away, she turned back to it. She wanted to finish it.

Whenever you think “I want,” immediately do something else.

The number one InhServ rule snapped into her head so fast, it was as if the training Mistress was right in front of her. The book fell onto the floor, facedown, crumpling the pages. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to steady herself, she bent, retrieved it. Smoothing the paper, she mulled it over for several moments. She needed to follow the rules she’d followed all her life. Faced with a path back to them or toward uncertainty, the right choice was obvious. The rules couldn’t be wrong.

Rising, she replaced the novel on the shelf. She stood there for a while, though, her fingers on the spine, thinking of that picture on the front. The heroine on her knees, the hero bent over her. She could imagine his hand sliding down from her face to collar her, hold her still as he sipped from her mouth, teased her tongue, bade her to be so still. Every nerve ending focused on what he was doing to her. Overwhelming her so it felt like he held her heart in his hand.

Backing away from the bookshelf, she forced herself to return to the chair and sit down. Feet flat on the floor, back straight, buttocks on the edge. Since her Master had no tasks for her to perform, and she couldn’t meditate, then she’d simply sit here, waiting as if commanded to do so. Like at a vampire dinner, where she’d stood behind Stephen’s chair, motionless for hours until called to perform for the entertainment of his guests.

As a result of that thought, an even better idea struck her. She rose and went to the kitchen. Positioning herself on the wall behind the chair where Niall had sat, she assumed that silent, waiting posture. To help her remain still, she imagined she was back in Berlin, in the opulent dining room with two dozen place settings and chandelier lights. The room full of Council members and their servants, ready to do and be whatever their Masters desired.

When Niall returned several hours later, she was still standing there. She’d left the door open to allow fresh air in the cabin, and the sounds of the mountain—birds, bugs, the wind—had been a quiet symphony playing in the white noise of her head. They couldn’t suppress the anxious tendrils of feeling, but they’d helped her manage them. Even so, she felt an almost dizzying flood