Z doesn’t need blades or blood to take me where I want to go. His unnatural power alone would be enough. He understands how the ritual excites me, though—the slow glide of metal across my breast or along my thigh, the rush of bright pain, the flare of desire as ruby droplets gather in the knife’s wake.
I never told him about the blades and the blood. He just knew, as he seems to know so much else about me. That first night I visited Underground, he drew me to his side without saying a word. Lifting my chin with graceful fingers, tilting my face up to his, he gazed into my eyes for an endless time, as though reading my soul. Sudden, electric desire seized me. At the same time, my heartbeat slowed. My breathing grew shallow and even. I didn’t resist his gentle but insistent probing of my mind.
“La petite mort,” he murmured finally. “Not just the metaphor, but the reality. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I nodded, struck dumb with wonder.
He grasped my hand, almost but not quite smiling. “Come with me.”
Tonight, his eyes hold mine while his hand moves to his belt. I’m always aroused in his presence, but the sight of his antique silver dagger emerging from its jeweled sheath brings me to boiling. A finger’s brush across my clit would send me tumbling into an overwhelming climax.
He doesn’t touch me, though. Not yet.
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