Page 140 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Instead of sucking the blood away, I smear it across my lower lip.

“Oh, fuck, baby.” Carter’s hips flex again. “More.”

More blood wells up on my thumb, and I lean back slowly. I drag my thumb from my the hollow of my throat down the center of my chest. Between my breasts.

He holds out his hand. I offer him the knife. He takes it carefully.

“You trust me,” he says.

I nod.

His free hand presses to my back between my shoulder blades, holding me steady. He drags the tip of the knife, light as a feather, from the hollow of my throat down between my breasts.

“Don’t move,” he warns. “Don’t even breathe.”

My lungs lock up on command. He traces an invisible pattern around my breast, spiraling toward my nipple.

Every scrape of the tip, every almost-cut, puts me on edge. Not fear, exactly, but something similar. I don’t know what it is.

I almost don’t notice the way his hand shifts. The blade bites my skin, but it’s so sharp the pain doesn’t register until two seconds later, when the blood beads up in its path.

He leans forward and kisses the cut on top of my breast. Kisses it and then sinks his teeth into it until I groan.

He gets harder. If that’s even fucking possible. He thickens inside me, and my head falls back.

“Vampire,” I tease.

“I need you to move,” he orders. “Ride me, dream girl.”

I like it when he calls me that. I like when he bosses me around.

He mauls my breasts and keeps me pressed to him while I take what I need. My hand goes between my legs, and I rub myself to an orgasm that I control. This is all me, even as my breathing gets shallower and a ball of pleasure pulses in my core.

I shudder. “I’m going to come.”

He lifts his head and watches my face. I keep going, my tits bouncing now that he’s not attached to them. I rub my clit harder, and I cry out sharply. He lets out a low breath, too, and nudges my fingers away.

He takes over stroking me, urging me to keep moving. My muscles tremble, and I lift off him. He growls at the loss of contact—the loss of me—but I slide to my knees between his legs and take him in my mouth. I taste myself on him, and I smear my palm across the droplets of blood on my chest. I wrap that hand around the base of his shaft, letting him see the glint of blood mixing with my saliva.

His fingers thread in my hair. I don’t think about my blood mixed with arousal. I try not to think about anything except making him feel good.

I bob faster, urging him deeper. My gag reflex kicks in, but I keep pushing.

He helps me. His hips thrust, and he leans back and watches me through lidded eyes. The blood tastes coppery, but mixed with him, it’s right. I suck hard, my cheeks hollowing, and his dick twitches.

“That,” he mutters. “Do that.”

I do. I take him deep and suck hard as I come up, stealing a sip of oxygen through my nose. Then down. I lap my tongue at the underside of his head until he hisses. With my other hand, I cup his balls, lightly stroking between the two sacs.

“I’m close,” he warns.

Good.

I keep taking him, forcing him deeper. The ring of muscles at the top of my throat constrict around his head, and I gag.

That does it.

His balls seem to lift, and suddenly his cum fills my mouth.