Vampyre Bride ✔️

XXX⎮In The Claws Of The Dragon

Emma's lashes drifted torpidly to her cheeks. Her arms were heavy with passion as she lifted them around his neck, arching her back as he dropped his silken mouth to her throat. Impulsively — perhaps instinctively — she angled her head to the side, her flesh thus stretched invitingly across her veins and bones. With a satisfied rumble Markus availed himself of every inch of skin she proffered, tongue brushing like hot silk beneath her upturned jaw. Then came the teasing pressure of long fangs at her collar bone, gentle yet insistent. He allowed only the smooth pearly length of them to skim athwart Emma's puckered skin, but never the hungry terminus; merely the threatening brush of his blades, but nothing more. When at last he pulled them away, her flesh unscathed, she was at once relieved and disappointed.

His midnight chuckle skimmed like a whisper over her flushed neck as he transferred his attentions to her heaving chest. Her heart fetched a languorous sigh that stumbled huskily from her lips. Strong hands delved lower, pleasure bound, whilst his mouth possessed itself of a febrile peak, rigid with anticipation. Eyes glazed with pleasure, she dug her nails into his scalp, alternately embedding and dragging them through his midnight hair, her fingers stiffening gloriously each time he trailed or paused a canine over her pebbled flesh. When he had kissed and venerated every inch of her breasts, he pulled her fists out of his hair and secured them above her head with her torn and discarded shift. He then bound them to the gargoyle at his bedpost, so that when she lifted her head back it was to see her fettered wrists clasped in the claws of a leering dragon. She shivered and returned her attention to the naked vampyre who had, meanwhile, settled himself between her parted thighs, bold and proud as the Greek warriors of old.

So transfixed was Emma (by that which she had heretofore only admired in renaissance art and sculpture) that she did not give her bound wrists another thought, for this was no David before her! And she had never thought to question the size of a man's... Well, she reminded herself, becoming anxious, this was no man after all.

Emma tore her gaze quickly away, blood quickening at her cheeks, and transferred it instead to his. With a knowing smirk he bent his eyes to her navel, a soft finger circling the crescent moon that lay just below it. Like an empty bowl it looked. So it was her birthmark that had interested him earlier when he'd doused the flames, how strange. She herself hardly ever gave it a thought. He, however, was distracted anew by the mark. A flash of tenebrosity fell across his brow of a sudden, but when another involuntary shiver rushed through her body he smiled — the shadows dissipating from his lineaments — and lowered his head to the birthmark. It was there that he kissed her thoroughly. There that he bit her gently, albeit not hard enough to pierce her trembling flesh. Again she was torn between relief and keen frustration.

Disregarding the mark for the nonce, Markus' lips thence roved over her hips, worshiping, as he'd promised, her body with his. He was on the whole reverent, teasing, and fearsome in his love-making.

Without warning, he dipped lower and was suddenly kissing her where she ached the most! Where she'd never imagined she might ever be kissed. A sinful kiss at the very gates of Heaven. Her whimper of surprise transmuted instantly to a groan of agonizing rapture. Though she wanted desperately to push his head away, her hands were not hers to control. And then, all too soon, she wanted never for him to cease his wicked assiduities. Feverishly she undulated and writhed, desperate for that elusive freedom in those silky shadows moving always out of her reach no matter how she strained to follow. And just when she thought she might shatter like a porcelain cup against the flags, Markus would pause his divine assault.

Emma was sure she might weep or rage or claw the feathers clean from his pillows (perhaps even from his dusky wings) if he persisted in maddening her thus. He seemed to revel in her mindless abandon. But, just when she was sure she could take no more of his rapturous brand of torture, she was delivered of her meed at long last. At that most euphoric crest of her ruinous cries, when the storm within finally abated with one final mighty thunderclap, tossing her splintered remains to the bottom of the sea, one of his wings shot out like a blade and severed her binding from the watchful black dragon. Had her gaze not been so befogged with her climactic release she might have witnessed the action as more than just a dark blur overhead. But the next instant she was lifted upright into his lap, his fingers vice-like at her hips, and her boneless legs folded around him so that her chest was now flush with his.