She expected him to mount her and take his release, fast and hard. Instead, he started with her arms and licked, nibbled, caressed. He suckled one breast while his thumb stroked the nipple of the other. Finally he moved lower, his mouth brushing the hair between her legs, his fingers delicately stroking, slick with her readiness. He moved lower, licking the skin on her inner thighs, nibbling on her calves, his hands always moving.

Finally, he sheathed himself inside her in one slow stroke. His hips pressed down on hers, denying her any movement while he braced himself on his elbows and went back to suckling her breasts, flexing his hips just enough to keep her on the edge but not enough for release. He held her on that edge for a lifetime while he licked, suckled, demanded kisses.

If she could have gotten her hands free of the phantom restraints, she would have strangled him.

Desperate to respond in some way to this tormenting pleasure, she settled for the only thing she could reach. She raised her head, clamped her teeth on his upper arm and bit down.

His snarl mixed pain and fury. He clamped a hand around her throat.

“Get your teeth out of my arm.”

Even knowing she was pushing him toward violence, she paused to lick his skin before she let go.

His glazed eyes studied her as his hand relaxed around her throat. “You do get feisty when you’re riled.” His mouth hovered over hers. Hesitated. Withdrew. “Don’t bite me again until you’re coming.”

He moved then. Deep, strong thrusts that sent her soaring, sent her over the edge. Before she could glide down all the way, he drove her up again.

“Not yet, witchling,” he growled. “You haven’t flown high enough yet.”

Driving her up and up until her world narrowed to the feel of his cock inside her. When he thrust her over the edge this time, her teeth found his arm again, muffling her scream as she climaxed.

This time he laughed, a sound ripe with dark pleasure, as he set his teeth into her shoulder and followed her.

Shivering, Marian eased into the kitchen, wishing she could have put her winter robe on over the flannel nightgown. But the only time Lucivar had turned violent was when she’d offered to get them some food. He’d agreed to that—until she’d put some clothes on. He attacked without warning, ripping the clothes off her before flinging her back on the bed and pinning her down. When she didn’t struggle, his temper shifted back to that raging sexual hunger, and he spent the next hour playing with her and feasting on her arousal and climaxes until they were both wrung dry and exhausted. Since then, he hadn’t allowed her out of the bedroom any farther than the adjoining bathroom.