J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [370]
“Keep your clothes on,” she said in a sharp voice.
“No.” He always took them off when he wanted to, not when she said. His pride demanded it.
“Keep your clothes on, whore.”
“No.” He undid his belt and snapped it free from his hips, the supple leather cracking in the air. He dropped it as he had the shirt, without care.
“The clothes stay on . . .” Her words drifted because her strength was weakening. Which was the fucking point.
With a deliberate hand, he cupped himself, then unzipped his fly, freed the fastener, and felt his pants fall down to the rough floor in a rush. His erection stood straight out from his hips, and pretty much summed up their relationship. He was viciously angry at her, and he hated himself, and he despised the fact that Trez was outside witnessing this all.
And as a result his cock was rock-hard and glistening at the tip.
For symphaths, a trip into mental illness was better than any Agent Provocateur splurge, and that was why this whole thing worked. He could give that sick shit to her. He could give her something else, too. She craved the sexual combat they had. Symphath mating was a civil chess match with an exchange of body fluids at the end. She needed the carnal grunt and grind only his vampire side could give her.
“Touch yourself,” she breathed. “Touch yourself for me.”
He didn’t do as she asked. With a growl, he kicked off his loafers and stepped away from the pile of his clothes. As he walked forward, he was damn aware of the picture he made, all hard and heavy. He stopped in the middle of the cabin, a slice of moonlight streaming through the window and running over the planes of his body.
He hated to admit it, but he craved this bad shit with her, too. It was the only time in his life that he could be who he really was, that he didn’t have to lie to the people around him. The ugly truth of it was, part of him needed this sick, twisted relationship, and that, more than the threat to him and Xhex, was what kept him coming back month after month.
He wasn’t sure whether the Princess knew his weakness. He was always careful not to tip his hand, but you could never be too sure what a symphath had on you. Which, of course, made the maneuvering all the more interesting because the stakes were higher.
“I thought we would start off tonight with a little show,” he said, turning around. With his back to her, he started to pleasure himself, taking his thick cock into his big hand and stroking it.
“Boring,” she said breathlessly.
“Liar.” He squeezed the head of his arousal so hard a gasp shot out of him.
The Princess moaned at the sound he made, his pain drawing her even further into the game. As he looked down at what he was doing, he felt a brief, troubling displacement, like it was someone else’s cock and someone else’s arm moving up and down. But, then, the distance from the act was necessary, the only way his decent vampire nature could handle this thing they did. The good part of him wasn’t here. He checked it at the door when he stepped inside.
This was the land of the Sin-eater.
“What are you doing,” she groaned.
“Stroking myself. Hard. The moonlight looks good on my cock. I’m wet.”
She sucked in sharply. “Turn around. Now.”
“No.”
Even though she made no sound, he knew she came forward at that moment, and the triumph he felt wiped out the disassociation. He lived for breaking her. It was fucking heroin in his veins, this power coursing through him. Yeah, afterward he would feel dirty as fuck, and, sure, he lived with nightmares because of all this, but right now he was seriously getting off.
The Princess came around in the shadows, and he knew when she saw what he was up to, because she moaned out loud, not even her symphath reserve strong enough to hold in her response.
“If you’re going to look at me”—he squeezed the head of his cock again until it went purple and he had to arch his back from the pain—“I want to see