Naked from the waist up, she was aware only of his eyes now, and of something he saw
inside her, of a part of her she’d always been dimly aware of but that now lit up so that
it obscured something else. It was a secret of hers—something her grandmother had told
her, and she felt it now under the vampire’s eyes with starling clarity, a memory from
twenty years ago. She smelled the old woman’s powder, saw the fussy wallpaper in the room,
and felt once again a child’s frightened and impatient emotions as her grandmother pressed
something into her hands, and told her to keep it, keep it and learn it. Remember it, for
it was hers, only hers. And she had, and now Szandor was here for it. It had been real and
her grandmother had been right. Szandor was here for it and she had it for him, waiting,
waiting all these years…
And then it was gone and Szandor Arnyak had her in his arms, his hands at the belt of her
skirt.
“Oh God, Szandor wait! I can’t just do it like this! Like an animal, like a common whore.
There has to be some respect, some tenderness—”
But he wasn’t listening. He had her skirt open, the belt, the zipper in the back, the top
pushed down, For his size and his power he worked with incredible grace and finesse, his
fingers barely touching her, and with a deft sweep of his hand, her skirt and slip were
gone and she was lying there on the sunken bed in stockings, panties and garters, still
arguing with him though the conversation had long since been decided.
“No,” he said finally, silencing her. He stared directly into her eyes, and his eyes were
glowing. “For this you are my whore, Lydia. You are precisely a whore for me!”
He stood up and slid off his shorts and she sat up to try and see him, see his size, what
was about to happen to her, but he was already between her legs, his knees between hers,
his hands on her shoulders, his hips drawing back—
“Oh! Oh god!” she wailed as he entered her. Her hands caught in his thick black hair and
her back arched. Her head fell back and her hips rolled lewdly up almost against her own
will with shocking greediness to take him inside. She wanted him.
Hard, thick, adamant, he took her wrists in his big hands and pressed them down against
the mattress, making her his prisoner and her legs fell apart, resistance useless.
He was the night. He was the darkness. He was everything she’d ever been afraid of made
beautiful, come to make love to her, come to take life from her, and her body roared with
pleasure like a cave in the sea…
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