He wouldn’t stop until he’d make her come at least once, maybe twice, loving the scent of her when she was so intimately exposed to him. It was decidedly equal to the scent of blood in how much it brought out the darker parts of him and the need to worship her. All his life he’d been waiting to feel this, whatever this was, and he would do anything to keep it forever.
The scent of her own blood never registered as she clawed at herself, trying desperately to cling to something but too afraid of hurting him to grab at him. She had never had an orgasm before and she couldn’t but trash beneath his ministrations, muscles in spasm as she tried, and failed, to keep from screaming.








