Maisie
Mercer's nostrils flared and his hand was in my hair, wrenching me forward until his lips hovered close to mine. For a moment, he did nothing but breathe in the same air as me.
And I did nothing but breathe him in.
And then, we collided.
My whole body seized from the force of it. It felt like a burn, a brand, like the first touch after years of sensory deprivation.
I wanted to touch him.
I wanted to claw at him, bite him, taste his skin with my lips. The wanting was so vast it felt like it might split me open.
My hands found his hair. His hands found my face, both palms cradling my jaw, and then I was making a desperate sound that was both a sob and a growl.
There was no finesse to it. Just raw hunger. Teeth and tongue, nails and fangs. His lower lip split against my fang and the taste of his blood touched my tongue.
He kissed me harder and I bit him again, just to hear the pleased grunt that vibrated in his throat.
