Blog Tour: Vampire Guardian by Joey W. Hill
Fae and vampires never fall in love.Except when they do.
Vampire Guardian, a deliciously erotic paranormal romance from award-winning author Joey W. Hill is available now!
Add Vampire Guardian to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3d8wAMT
Excerpt
Catriona approached the St. Andrew’s cross. Her feet were delicate, lacking the calluses he would have expected from her shoeless preference. If vampires didn’t get gray hairs, it made sense that Fae—at least of her tree nymph variety—didn’t acquire calluses.
She laid her cheek on the cross piece between the upper arms. The piece of BDSM equipment was adjusted for a taller person, so she had to stretch to do it. It made her backside tighten and tilt upward. A similar reaction happened in his groin. Was she doing it on purpose?
“What magical abilities do you possess?” Adan asked coolly.
As she turned her head, a light smile touched her lips. “What intelligent being would reveal that to someone who has not decided whether he is friend or foe?”
“Don’t play with me.”
Her smile vanished, her body going rigid as she pivoted back to the cross. “If my company offends you, my lord, you can return to your studies.”
Why the hell was he testing these waters? But he already knew the answer.
Dom, sub. Same room. Dungeon equipment.
Let poor judgment reign.
“Tell me what you’re trying to figure out, about the cross,” he said.
Her shoulders tensed. “How it works,” she said stiffly.
When he closed the distance between them, she flipped around to face him, so fast non-human speed got a checkbox on her list of skills. He logged her rabbiting pulse, her dilated eyes. Flight and defense reactions. But when his gaze dropped to her hands, he saw half-curled fists. Fight reaction.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gruffly. “I’m going to show you. All right?”
She pressed her lips together, gave him a short nod. He could tell her to step onto the cross’s foot platforms, facing him, but he didn’t. He slid an arm around her waist and lifted her. Her willow lean body was surprisingly resilient, and way too female. All the trigger points went off, designed by the smirking, sadistic gods to make him respond to a woman’s proximity.
Keeping a steadying hand at her waist, he gripped her wrist and lifted it, aligning her right arm with that arm of the cross. “Leave your knuckles pressed to the wood.”
He brought down the adjustable handle, guided her fingers beneath it and did the same to the other hand. “Grip those, and don’t let go of them.”
The Dom woodworker had been inspired by a medieval rack, only for far better purpose. Adan slid both handles back up, bringing her up on her toes again. While his vampire senses could calculate precise reach, his experience as a Master told him where that extra inch was, past which a sub had to strain for him.
It lifted her chest, pressed it against his torso. He spread his hands over her wrists, and noted her knuckles were white where they gripped the handles. That, and the quiver of her breasts, told him she wasn’t calm.
Now she had the confused, little-bit-dazed look a submissive new to it did. He’d scented a hint of her arousal when she approached the cross. That bouquet had gone from fragrant, barely there, to a full-on, heady perfume of want.
He should suggest they play, right here and now. If she wanted to learn, there was nothing like hands-on experience. He dipped his head, intending to test those waters by brushing his lips up along the shell of her ear. Except that shell narrowed to a point, and when he followed that track, he saw her wings, framed inside the V-top of the cross and fluttering in uncertain agitation.
It brought him back to his senses. He’d cut his dick off before he’d put it inside a Fae.
Unfortunately, that part of his body didn’t care. His fingers itched to tease her heated wetness, his mouth wanted to taste. He wanted to slide into her so deep he’d reach all her mysteries, open up whatever magic she was spinning on his senses.
Her waiting on him so obediently, while her need grew, didn’t help. She’d kept her hands where he’d ordered them, her body on display, an unconscious invitation, and it made him angry. But he managed to speak in an even tone.
"The Dom straps your wrists up like this. Your ankles to the bottom pieces. He can choose to keep you facing him, or turn you around, depending on what he wants to access.”
Her breath flitted across his mouth like the brush of a feather. "What does he do, once he restrains me?"
"Whatever he wants."
Her grey-green eyes became even softer, the color of down. "What would you do to me, my lord?"
He stepped back, releasing her so suddenly one of her feet left the platform. Her hands slipped away from the handles and she gripped the frame to steady herself. Emotions flipped across her face. Surprise. Hurt. Thoughtfulness. She straightened, linking her hands together, knotted fingers pressed to her abdomen.
"One moment, you look at me with desire,” she said. “Interest. Hunger. The next moment, what’s in your eyes becomes hatred. So much it hurts."
"Hurts who?"
"Me. You. Everything." The break in her voice betrayed her emotions. "It coats everything around you in reds and oranges, the colors of rage.”
He stared at her. "Put your arms and feet back where I had them."
“Why?” She set her jaw, her fingers digging against her stomach. She was having trouble standing against his will. Knowing why only made him sink deeper into trouble.
“Because I told you to.” He touched her chin to bring her eyes from his throat up to his face. “I still won’t hurt you.”
He hadn’t said the words with any kind of gentleness, but he meant them. Even though the volatile reaction boiling in his gut told him he couldn’t do this much longer.
Since the handles were still where he’d moved them, she reached up with a graceful arch of her body, another unconscious sexual offering, especially with her thighs spread along the bottom legs of the cross.
Red and orange were the colors for passion as well. And rage and passion could get along well enough.
He closed the distance, bringing them almost nose to nose. She had a sweet one, small and straight, nostrils flared from her agitation. When he put his hands over her slim wrists, her lips parted. It made him want to unsheathe his fangs.
"I can hate what you are and have you all the same,” he said, low. “Make you beg for more. You'll cherish my hatred, what I can summon from those fires to turn your body to flame."
She trembled. Her eyes, so big and filled with the colors of earth, beckoned him to tumble into their depths. Into the heart of the earth itself, which was flame, too. A different kind of flame.
Her head turned, and she started. Her reaction pulled him out of his turmoil, such that he followed her gaze.
Whatever influence he'd had on her mind and emotions had resulted in a resurrection of the wood. The cross now had several cracks in its veneer, tiny shoots coming forth, green leaves unfurling.
“Life doesn’t respond to hate, my lord,” she said softly.
About Joey W. Hill
.jpg)
Comments
Post a Comment
Have Your Say!