Playlist: Marvin Gaye - Sexual Healing
He slid her arms above her head, this time gentler, pinning them with one hand while the other drifted downward. His fingers, cool and deliberate, found the top of her shirt and undid a button. Then another. She gasped against his mouth, her skin exposed to the chill of the air and the burn of his touch. His hand skated across her collarbone.
She was undone.
He knew the bond was to blame. Nature didn't play fair. The connection between them buzzed, crackling with heat and inevitability. She could deny him with words all day long, but her body answered with a loud yes.
He brushed a thumb gently over her nipple, and she shuddered, her legs giving out slightly. Damien caught her with ease, a smirk twitching at his lips.
"Oh, Moonlight," he whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to trail soft bites along her jaw and down her neck. Her scent overwhelmed him. He wanted to taste every inch of her, memorize her every gasp. His fangs ached. His restraint trembled.
Luna's breath hitched. Her mind screamed danger. Her body screamed encore.
"Please…" Luna heard herself say. What she was begging for, she had no idea.
Damien smiled to himself. "I'll give you more when you tell your father we are mates. I will fuck you royal style, my Moonlight and when you turn to mush in my hands, I will fuck you again."
And just like that, he was gone. It seemed like he never even existed. Her brain was mush, her legs without feeling. "Oh God…" she groaned.
*****
Damien returned from his patrol at the borders with the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders and the scent of the forest still clinging to his clothes. He had spent hours combing the perimeter, sniffing out even the faintest trace of rogue vampires.
He needed a bath. A cold one. The kind that slapped a man's senses back into order and reminded him that he was not, in fact, ruled by hormones. But it was pointless pretending. No icy downpour could cool the fire Luna had lit in him that afternoon. His skin still tingled from her touch. Her lips haunted him. She had melted into him her body singing a tune only his could echo.
He entered the bedroom the palace had assigned him. He saw a single note, folded neatly and placed on the dresser as if it had been waiting there for years instead of hours.
'Meet me tonight, in my room. We need to talk.'
His heart lurched.
Only one person could've sent that. He read it again, and again, as though the ink might disappear if he blinked too long. This was it. She had finally surrendered. No one wrote notes like that unless they were ready to give in to the inevitable. To the pull of the moon. To him.
A slow, crooked smile crept onto his face. About damn time.
He took that cold shower anyway—mostly to calm his racing thoughts rather than his body—and waited. Waited until the palace hushed into its nightly slumber, until the guards were lazily pacing their routes.
Then he slipped out, soundless as mist, and made his way to her door.
She opened it before he could knock.
And gods… she was waiting.
Luna stood wrapped in a pale, almost sheer nightdress that fell just above her knees. It was the sort of thing made by sadistic tailors who didn't care about vampire self-control. Damien's gaze swept over her, drinking in every detail—bare feet, loose hair tumbling down her back, the outline of her every curve visible beneath the fabric.
Talk? Was that what she called this?
He stepped in, quietly closing the door behind him.
"Did you really think all we'd do was talk tonight," he said. "while you're standing there looking like the Moon Goddess handcrafted you specifically to torment me?"
She crossed her arms—an admirable attempt at modesty that only served to lift her chest higher. His eyes followed the motion.
"Don't look at me like that."
"I'm only looking," Damien said, stepping closer. "You're the one who sent the invitation to sin."
"I sent a note. Not a booty call."
He chuckled darkly. "Darling, when you write 'meet me in my room' and then open the door in that—you're basically delivering my own undoing with a ribbon on top."
He reached out to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, grazing her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. She tilted her head without realizing.
"I came because you said we needed to talk," he said softly, drawing closer. "But I need you to understand something, Luna. I've waited centuries for you. Centuries of cold nights, wondering if fate forgot me."
She blinked, lips parted. "You're not making this easy."
"I'm not supposed to."
His hand slipped to her waist. She didn't stop him. In fact, she stepped forward, just a little. Enough for her chest to press lightly against his.
"I did invite you here to fuck me, Damien." Luna's voice was barely a whisper, but it hit him. "Because it's all I can give you. After tonight, I'm going to choose duty."
For a moment, time stood still. Damien's hands, which had just seconds ago been caressing her waist with reverence, dropped from her. He jerked back, like her skin had scorched him—and in a way, it had. Only it wasn't her skin. It was her words.
He took two steps back, the pain flashing across his face so fast it almost didn't register. But it was there. The kind of pain that comes from a clean slice straight through the soul.
"So," he said, "this is a booty call?"
"In a manner of speaking," Luna replied, looking everywhere but at him. The floor suddenly became incredibly interesting. Her toes curled against the carpet.
Damien gave a humorless laugh. "You think I would give up a lifetime with you for a few minutes of pleasure? Who do you think I am? That reminds me of the story of Esau, you know—sold his birthright for a bowl of stew. You think I'm that hungry?"