Free Rites of Blood: Cora's Choice Bunble 4-6 by V. M. Black Page A

down over us.
    Then he slid two fingers in to their limit, and I gasped at the friction at my entrance. He half withdrew them to find the place— that place—that had pushed me into climax before. My body knew what was coming next and tightened in response.
    “Please,” I said, not even sure whether I meant for him to do it or to spare me—not because I didn’t want it but because I was afraid of what pieces of myself I’d leave behind when I came.
    He pressed against it, and I shuddered in his arms. His thumb was still on my mound, and he clasped me, inside and out, rhythmically tightening and loosening his grasp as his mouth continued its assault on my self-control. I spiraled up and up, rocking with him until I went crashing sideways into the heat of another orgasm, my skin so hot that the water felt like ice, my legs giving way so that he had to slip his free arm around me and hold me up, against him.
    The waves receded, and I was left, limp and panting, in his arms as he looked down at me, his eyes so dark with desire that the blue had retreated to a thin line around the well of blackness.
    “Turn around,” he said, setting me on my feet and turning me so that I faced the shower wall.
    Water poured across my too-sensitive skin.
    “Lean forward,” he ordered. “More.”
    I whimpered as I obeyed, remembering the closet—wanting that again, the force and the urgency and, yes, the edge of pain. I felt thin, pulled to the limit. The marble wall was blessedly cool against my forearms, a welcome counterpoint to the torture of the water.
    He nudged my legs apart with his, and I felt him step between them, urging me wider. One hand gripped my hip, and I braced myself. I felt the hard head slide up my thigh, and other hand was between my thighs, opening me and guiding his erection into me.
    I gasped as he entered—the head pressed against the place that his hand had just taken to acute sensitivity. I marveled at the sense of being invaded and filled, so alien and intimate, satisfying a void that I hadn’t even known existed a week ago. He held me there, against the shower wall, thrust in so deep so that I could feel the nest of hair at the base pressing against my buttocks, the root of him hard against my entrance. The stillness of him was a torment.
    His hand slid up along my folds and between my buttocks, brushing the place behind my entrance where I stretched to accommodate him and skimming up, sending a jolt over me as he brushed over my hip and back down my belly to roll my clit lightly in his fingers.
    By then I was panting with my need for him to move inside of me, squirming ineffectually as he held me still against him with his other hand.
    “Tell me what you want, Cora,” he ordered.
    He ordered, but there was no force behind it. As if he wanted me to sign my own fate.
    “Dorian,” I protested.
    “Dorian, what?” His fingers tortured me, making me throb around him.
    “Do it,” I groaned. “Do me.” And I couldn’t say the other thoughts that crowded up in my brain, that I wanted the edge, the danger, and oh, please, the pain....
    I didn’t know whether he realized what I wanted or had obeyed his own desires, but his fingers dug into my hips. My face shoved into my arms on the wall of the shower, his body slick with water against mine as he drove in hard. It hurt against my swollen, over-tender flesh, but I wanted all of it, I welcomed it, wanted more of everything, the pain and pleasure bleeding one into another.
    He gave it to me, launching me hard into the grips of an orgasm that came tearing through me, tearing me apart, and I welcomed myself flying apart. My knees began to buckle as I slid away.
    “Stand up, Cora,” he hissed.
    I did, forcing my knees to lock, and the effort trapped me in my body even as my climax battered me. I could feel the ragged breaths in my chest, the contractions of my innermost parts around the hardness of him, the shuddering, glorious electricity that pulsed with