My hips roll against the impressive erection straining his dark jeans, the friction only adding to the ache of my throbbing pussy. I’m so wet that I’m sure I’ve soaked the front of his pants. My hand snakes down between us, and sure enough, the fly of his jeans is damp.

I need to get out of here. Breathe, Diya. Walk away. Walk away.

Without my permission, my hand expertly releases the button and zipper, dipping inside to palm his thick, rock-hard cock. Running my fingers down the velvet length, I feel every ridge and vein. Fucking hell. He’s perfect.

Groaning, I clench so hard that I accidentally bite down on his tongue, earning me a hiss of pain. Oops. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, he thrusts harder into my hand and plunges his tongue deeper into my mouth. The taste of his blood floods my mouth and my basement, and I’m done for.

I legitimately cannot stop. I’m not sure which one of us pushes the soaked crotch of my panties to the side and lines him up, but the moment he pushes into me, I cry out.

In pleasure. In pain. In devastation.

I don’t want to hurt this man.

He thrusts into me with so much power that I feel my ass leave an imprint on the wall. He must realize that I’m not human either, but there’s no way he knows what I am, he would have run. I should have told him. I should have stopped this before it started. How could I be so weak?

My hands grip onto his shoulders, sharp nails digging into the smooth brown skin of his arms, simultaneously pushing him away as my legs grip him tightly against my body.

I feel it happening.

The sound of his heartbeat becomes the only thing I can hear, and it lulls me into a dazed headspace. My whole body warms, my skin tingling with heat.

Beads of sweat break out over his forehead, dripping down his face. My tongue darts out to taste the sharp, salty tang of his smooth skin.

I’m well and truly gone.

He looks up at me, his unnaturally green eyes remarkably clear. “Holy shit, your eyes,” he pants, but he doesn’t stop thrusting.

The silver glow of my eyes isn’t enough to scare him or put him off. He’s too far gone, lured in by my curse. If anything, it encourages him.

The buttons on the front of my dress are ripped open, my barely contained breasts straining against the thin mesh of my bra. He makes an unintelligible but appreciative sounding noise, something between a groan and a hiss, as he pulls one breast, and then the other, over the fabric of my bra so that they are both hiked up and displayed. The glint of metal from my piercings catches the light.

“Fucking hell,” he moans softly.