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Blood Song

Charli B Rose

They were two souls bound by blood and love. Can they find a way to overcome all the secrets and the past destined to keep them apart?

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Read an excerpt from Blood Song

I needed his lips on mine. Tangling my fingers in the silky strands of his hair, I tugged him to me. When we finally connected, I groaned. He swallowed it down greedily as he angled my head to plunder my mouth.

Toven shifted over me. His chiseled muscles pressed against my soft curves in the most delicious way. 

He finally pulled back with a low growl. “You’re addictive. I don’t think my appetite for you will ever be sated. I’m certain I was destined to only kiss you like this. And I don’t want to stop, even if I know I should for your sake.” He shifted off me, leaning back against the headboard. 

A range of emotions warred for priority on his face. I couldn’t let him decide last night was a mistake. Now that he’d shown me all I’d been missing, I was starving for more of him. I had to shut down his brain before he came to a decision I’d hate.

I sat up, letting the sheet drop from around me. Crawling up to where Toven watched me pensively, I straddled his lap.

“If you don’t want to stop, then don’t.”

I crushed my mouth to his, and he surrendered. We were both panting by the time our lips parted. I leaned back so I could look at him carefully to make sure he still wanted me. 

With him holding back, self-doubt began to creep in. I knew the options available to him—I’d seen them at every party and function we’d attended. I’d read their snide comments about me on every single article online. My mind catalogued the features of all those women, and I found myself seriously lacking when stacked against the sum of them.

Eventually, I became aware of his fingers moving across my neck and shoulder. They traced across my bare skin in deliberate swirls and movements.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion.

“Writing a love song,” he said nonchalantly.

“What for?”

“For you. For us. Listen, this is a half-note, middle C followed by a quarter note F, then double-eighth notes at G.” With each description, he drew a note on my collarbone. “And here is the bridge,” he said as his fingertips tracked across my chest, making deliberate notes as if an invisible staff was etched on my skin.

“Here is a whole note,” he said as he latched his mouth against my skin and sucked. 

I arched, thrusting my flesh deeper into his mouth. After a few beats, he let go with a pop.

“And a series of sixteenth-notes,” he described as his tongue fluttered rapidly against me. “Do you hear it?”

“Mm-hmm,” I moaned.

“My right hand and mouth are writing the melody . . . listen for it. I can’t move to the next part until you can hear it.” He shifted to the other side.

He continued using my upper body to compose a tune. It was exquisite torture.

“Toven, please.”

I wasn’t sure what I was begging for, but thankfully, he could read me like a song he’d written.

He shifted, joining us. It was excruciatingly slow and beautiful. Music filled my ears as he filled my body. He moved with a deliberate rhythm. 

His fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, directing my mouth against his. But he didn’t kiss me. He spoke, painting my lips with his words, “Imagine this is the song’s tempo. The pace of our joining is the percussion, the drumbeat backing our song.”

“I like this beat,” I answered breathlessly.

His fingers plucked at my sensitive skin. “These notes here would be played on a guitar.”

He dipped his head, tongue and mouth moving on my flesh as he said, “The melody continues while all the other components add.”

Letting go of my neck, he reached between us, his touch soft, deliberate. “These notes here would be played at the bass end of the piano. Slow whole notes, building anticipation. Then a few scattered quarter notes.” With that description, he strummed his fingertip against me. Slow, deliberate circles followed by fast, flickering caresses.

“And we work all the parts of the song to a climatic finish.”

The pulse of his composition synched with the beating of my heart. The song was being etched on my heart as he scribbled it on my skin. I arched my back, pressing against him, and we both fell headlong into a resounding refrain.

He traced a few lingering notes on my body as the song faded to a close.

“Wow,” I panted, resting my head in the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, I’ve found a new way to compose music now. No other way will ever be as inspirational as this. You’re my muse.” 

I pressed my lips to his pulse point. “Can I get an encore?”

“I’d love nothing more.”