Gothicana

“One taste. That’s it.”

Yes, she wanted one taste. He was close, so close, and she was dying to let his taste penetrate her.

He stayed exactly where he was, shielding her with one arm on the side of the shelf, keeping their gazes locked as he slowly began to inch her skirt up. The fabric rustled over her legs, exposing them to the air on one side, adding to the sensory overload in her body, and Corvina felt her breathing stutter.

His hand – his big, naked, skilled hand – brushed over her hip, her thigh, glancing his fingers over her the wet, needy spot between her legs, discovering nothing but flesh.

His breathing grew ragged as his finger made contact with her wetness. “No panties?”

Corvina shivered. “I don’t… don’t like underwear. I skip them sometimes.”

“You’ve ruined me with that knowledge.” His middle finger circled her opening once, and she leaned back into the books behind her, thrusting her hip forward involuntarily, needing more pressure, more contact. But he removed his hand, bringing it out from under her skirt, making it fall back into place.

Eyes on her, he rubbed his wet finger over her lower lip slowly, coating it with her moistness, then leaned forward, licking the juice he’d smeared there.

Her walls clenched.

“Ambrosia,” he muttered, giving her lower lip another soft lick, her head dizzy with the sensations. Their noses brushed, chests heaving, his pupils blown wide, his mouth parted as hers.

“Witch,” he muttered, there, right there, so close she could almost feel his lips.

“Devil,” she murmured back, seeing his eyes flare with molten fire, feeling the heavy bulge of him pressed against her stomach, right where heart coiled deep.

The sound of something crashing in another aisle had them both jerking back.  

He sca

“We ca

Corvina gulped. “Yes, Mr. Deverell.”

Without another word, he turned on his heels and left, taking the electric air with him.

Corvina collapsed back against the shelf, putting the hand he’d been holding over her chest, trying to calm her racing her, trying to ignore the tingle in her mouth, trying to clench the muscles between her thighs. She didn’t know him, didn’t know who he was. He could be evil. He could be responsible or co

Verenmore was her clean slate, and Vad Deverell was her writing on the wall.