Free The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella by Delilah S. Dawson

big girl. I always know what I’m getting into.”

    One finger, curled under her chin, made her tilt her head back to look up at him. Her lips parted, waiting for him to crash into her, to run his hands down her body with the frenzy she felt inside every time they traded barbs. Instead, he spun her around to face the door and pressed close against her back, hotter than the sun and breathing warmly over her neck. One after the other, he took her hands, pinning them against the door over her head. Her heart sped up, pounding against the door loudly enough that she was sure he could hear it, and with animal grace, she arched her back, feeling the hardness of him even through her bustle and the layers of skirts.
    His lips brushed her ear, running down her hairline to the high collar of her dress. She’d never hated fashion so much, never resented the way people in Sangland were forced to cover so much skin just to stay alive. As his mouth skimmed down the curve of her neck, she could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and when his teeth found her shoulder, she let out a small moan. One hand still pinned both of hers to the wood, his other hand tight on her hip, moving around to the front, to the sensitive crease just under the hipbone. Through layers of skirts, his hand steadily followed the line of her corset to where it came to a point, right at the crux of her.
    “Don’t move your hands,” he whispered in her ear. “Or I stop.”
    He released them, and they stayed pinned to the wood, flat, one on top of the other. His right hand traveled with careful, cruel slowness, down her wrist, past the sensitive furrow of her elbow, down her shoulder, still wet with the marks of his teeth. All the while, his left hand rubbed through her skirts, back and forth, hard enough that she could feel it but softly enough that it provided no relief. Over the curve of her ribs, the valley of her corset, the swell of her hip, his right hand traveled with leisurely abandon, never pausing, even when she strained for his touch. When his left hand left off its work, she groaned. But she swallowed the sound when she felt him move back and downward, palms gripping her hips as he knelt behind her.
    She almost turned around, but he had burned it into her: don’t move . His hands caressed her ass reverently through the bustle and skirts before running down the outsides of her legs, past her knees, all the way down to the tops of her boots, just above her ankles. Damn. If she’d known he’d get this close, she would have worn the elegant boots with the sharp heels, the ones that laced up to her thighs. His fingers were feather-light as he moved them to the insides of her legs and trailed them upward, skimming over her fashionably ripped stockings. When he found the insides of her knees, they nearly buckled. And as he reached the softness of her thighs, he stood back up, dragging her skirts up with him and exposing her legs to the chill air.
    Teeth clenched, she closed her eyes and set her forehead against the cool wood, just under her wrists. She felt with exquisite slowness and anticipation the moment when his hands changed courses under her layers of skirts and petticoats, the left one continuing up the tender inside of her thigh while the right one spread wide and caressed her ass briefly, gently, before curving around to her front, just under the edge of her corset. At the exact same moment, his fingers found the crux of her from either side, and she gasped and whimpered.
    One finger slid up and curled inside her with expert precision, and she spread her legs wider to accommodate him, fighting her every instinct to use her hands, her mouth, anything to touch him. But: don’t move . Or he would stop. So her own fingers curled against the wood in imitation of his fingers inside her, her nails raw against the gloves. Marco’s body pressed hard against her as he worked her with both hands, and she wanted nothing more than for him to