The King Of All Vampire Kings (Book 1) ✔️

|33| ~ French Kiss ~

Claire Pov
Unedited.

His lips are so soft, like a feather tickling my skin. They are sweet, sweeter than thick maple syrup. They taste . . . Oh jeepers, creepers! I have a fever . . . They taste delicious. They are steam that rises to the air from a cup of morning coffee. And his tongue—wicked and savory—tastes like warm apple cider, providing a sweet spice to coat my very own.

My taste buds explode. Each and every sensation blend together in perfect harmony, creating the perfect kiss. Our tongues tango passionately.

He latches on to my bottom lip, his mouth sending my body straight to hell, burning me whole, and then it brings ice water to freeze hell over. I'm set on fire; I'm frozen alive, together at the same goddamn time.

He lifts his right hand, only to place it onto my inner thigh. I moan as he squeezes my thigh while deepening the kiss. Our kiss. My kiss. The French kiss that I'm sharing with King Nicklaus, the king of all vampire kings.

My moan must have sparked something inside him because suddenly he starts to gently suck on my bottom lip. My mind forms another word: inferno. That's exactly what seems to be happening inside me. A large fire wildly spreads through every inch of my body, dangerously breaking the rest of my self‑control. I devour his lips, sucking, tasting, and licking them.

Oh my God, they taste so good!

He returns the favor—sucking, tasting, and licking my own tongue. We are at war. Our tongues are fighting against each other, battling for control. The kiss is hot and demanding yet cold and isolating. Nothing around us seems to exist right now. It's just me, King Nicklaus, our lips, and our tongues. That's it. There is nothing else in this entire godforsaken world that matters.

It's just us.

I roll over on top of him, ready and hungry. His left hand slightly lifts up my cashmere sweater to grip my waist. My mind goes haywire with the skin-to-skin contact. The feel of his fingernails digging into my skin sends a tidal wave of need and want to surface in the center of my core. Desire is stirring in my blood as his hungry tongue travels to the back of my throat. I open up my mouth wider, finally allowing him to take full control.

Oh, now why did I do that?

The feel of his tongue down my throat and his hands touching my bare skin makes my heart, mind, body, and soul explode.

He pulls away, breaking the kiss and leaving both of us breathless. My lips are swollen.

"Claire," he breathes. "I have waited a thousand lifetimes . . ."—he captures my heart with his eyes—"to taste your lips."

And once again, he holds me captive with his mouth. He doesn't take his time anymore or fight with me for control. He does it hungrily, kissing me hard and strong. At this moment he's an artist, painting a story with his lips. I can feel his raw emotion traveling inside my soul from the tenderness of his kiss. I know he means every word he utters. His actions speak louder than his words.

His kiss says, "I need you" in English, French, and Russian. His hunger is pulling me underneath, adrift. And I'm sinking.

When he takes his lips away, I whimper like a child who lost their favorite toy. Oh, I have never experienced this before. My heart is in his hands, and my soul was transferred into his heart by the touch of our lips.

He unbuttons his dress shirt seductively. The look in his eyes tells it all. I know exactly what he's going to say before he even says it.

"Take off your clothes, Claire," he demands.

I follow. At this moment, I'll follow his every command.

Slowly, I pull off my sweater and hesitantly pull down my leggings. I start to shake. I'm petrified. I feel nervous under his watchful stare. My reflection is drowning in his irises. His eyes are like smoke; they're suffocating me. I cannot breathe.