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Fuck, she was intoxicating. His hand moved higher up her leg, reaching up under the dress shirt and caressing her hips. She was nude, under his shirt, and knowing that nothing stood between her and his hard cock except his own clothing made him suck in a sharp breath.
Fey’s hands moved down his chest, touching him through his shirt. He groaned encouragingly, then clutched her tight to him so he could lean over and set his glass of wine on the table. He wanted both hands free, needed to have both hands on her.
“Could you feed from me?” she asked in a whisper.
“No,” Alastair answered quickly. Too quickly, as he settled back on the couch. Her touch stilled and withdrew.
“Why not?” Fey asked. The soft arousal in her voice replaced with a cold chill. “Is there something wrong with drinking from Witches?”
He liked this, Alastair realized, trying not to smile. This small jealousy from her, this misunderstanding of what he meant. Ignoring the anger now simmering behind her eyes, Alastair took her hand, gently kissing her fingertips.
“We only feed on the weak,” he answered, trying to explain it as best he could. “Or, we only feed on those weaker than we are. I’m the second strongest Vampire alive—not a brag,” he added. “Just a fact. In a few years, I might eclipse my father’s power, and eventually I think my brother will eclipse me. In fact, I know he’ll eclipse me, and I’ll be glad of it. But being this powerful means I have plenty of others to pick from when I need to feed.” He nipped her fingertips lightly.
“And you won’t drink from me, because?”
“It’s… disrespectful, to drink from someone more powerful than you are. It’s almost like saying they’re beneath you.” He sighed. “Look, it’s hard to explain, but letting me drink from you would be like… it would be like asking me to say you were beneath me. Nothing, to me.”
She considered this.
“You’re saying I’m more powerful than you?” Fey asked, watching him carefully.
He considered how to answer this, his hands continuing to explore her body, moving higher, over her hips to her waist, pushing the fabric of his shirt up as he did so.
“Before? Maybe not. It would have been close, too close to tell. But now?” He pulled her closer, kissing her cheek, the soft skin of her neck. Breathing in that delicious scent of hers. “Something changed while you were gone, Fey. If you’re not ready to talk about it yet, that’s fine. Goddess knows you don’t owe me an explanation. But now—” He kissed the delicate spot on her neck where her pulse was strong. Powerful. “You smell like raw power. Energy.” His tongue snaked out to taste her skin, and she trembled. “It’s overpowering. Yes, Witchling, you’re more powerful than I am. And it would be distasteful for me to drink from someone so much higher than me on the food chain.”
“Maybe I should drink from you,” she teased. The anger was gone from her voice, he noticed with relief.
“Maybe you should,” he purred. “I can get you a glass and a knife from the kitchen if you’d like?”
She laughed, and he pulled her even closer on his lap, pressing her as close to his body as he could, until he knew she could feel how hard he was for her. Knew when she felt him, from her sharp intake of breath.
He snaked his fingers over her back, gently cupping her ass. She quivered against him.
“What does it feel like? To have someone feed from you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered her, truthfully. “No one has ever fed from me. But,” he continued, “the women I have fed from—and, yes Witchling, it has always been women—tell me it is… a pleasant experience.”
That was putting it mildly. Based on the languid state of the women after he’d fed from them and the satisfied smiles on their faces, he believed it might have been a bit more than a “pleasant experience” for them.
“Why so interested in how I feed, Witchling?” he asked, his voice a whisper against her skin. He brought his hand from behind her, slipping it between them so he could tease between her hips, and he smiled at the way she wriggled in his grasp, trying to get him to touch her properly. “Did you really want me to feed from you?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her hips jerking under his touch. “Maybe, it wouldn’t be disrespectful if I agreed to it? If I asked you to do it? Maybe I want to?—”
She arched against him and gasped in shock as he bit into her neck, both fangs puncturing the area right above her pulse.
He held her there, impaled on his bite, but didn’t feed. Didn’t draw any of her blood from her body. He wasn’t sure if he could, anyway; the idea of making her submit in that way was too sordid, even for him. And she needed all the strength she had for whatever it was she was dealing with. But this? A simple bite, he could do. Just to give her a taste.
To give him a taste.
Fey rolled her hips against him, trembling in his hold.
“Alastair,” she whimpered, and he groaned in response. He could feel her pulse under his mouth, and it would feel so good to take a pull of that power, to truly taste her.
It felt so perfect holding her here like this, even without feeding. It felt right.
“Please,” she pleaded, legs and hips shaking as his fingers continued to tease around her, never quite touching her where she wanted, where she needed to be touched. She groaned, clearly enjoying the feel of his bite, of his touch.
He couldn’t answer her, not with his fangs buried in her neck, and when he continued to tease her, brushing his fingers over her but not quite touching, she let out a frustrated growl and grabbed his hand, pushing it against her, grinding against him, until?—
