Mists of Velvet

pink nipples he wanted in his mouth.
    His vision swam, a profound sense of sexual need and hunger swamped him, and he bit down, capturing the erect nipple between his teeth, then rolling his tongue around the swelling tip. She cried out in pleasure, her body arching against him. The feel of her, all soft curves against him, made him shove against her, rubbing his cock against her hip.
    Consumed now, he tasted her, sucking, nipping, while his other hand played with her breast. He was aware of her hand, lowering between their bodies, then the scent of her sex parting. With a growl, he told her he liked it, that he wanted her to play with herself. But he wanted to be part of it, too.
    Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he used pressure to show her what he wanted, her fingers in her cunt pushing in and out as she thought of his cock pushing deep inside her. She moaned, and he wondered if she would make that beautiful sound when he slid into her.
    He imagined it, shoving his cock into her, pounding against her as he held her by her hair and watched her come beneath him.
    Unable to wait any longer, he shoved her hand away and sank two fingers into her core. She was hot, wet, and so damned tight that he felt his cock begin to leak.
    He couldn’t come yet. It was too soon. He wanted more. He needed to feel her for longer; to listen to her sounds that aroused him so much. Whatever poison the mage had given him made him feel as though he could fuck all night and never tire, never stop taking her.
    Moving against her, he shouldered his way between her thighs. He was panting, sweating. He could smell the scent of her sex; he wanted to run the tip of his tongue along her seam and circle her clitoris. He wanted to suck on her, to spread her wide, to eat every inch of her. And when she smoothed her hands over her voluptuous body and captured her breasts, shoving them together, he imagined going down on her, watching as she played with her tits as he ate her. Pulling his fingers free, he licked them, tasting her at last as she watched him. She was not afraid of him, or of his desire. He saw that in her eyes. In his mind, he saw her taking his cock and tasting him, too.
    The vision was so damned erotic, especially when he knew who the woman was. Experiencing this altered state of sexual excitement was exhilarating. Experiencing it while seeing her was beyond anything he had ever dreamt.
    What little remained of his conscious thought recoiled at the thought of what was happening to him. How could he be aroused when he was strapped to a stone altar, ready to be carved to bits? But his mind’s will to fight wasn’t strong enough to counter the effects of the thorn-apple on his body—or the image of the woman lying on her back, her sex pink and glistening, and her nipples little points—waiting to be taken between his teeth once more.
    “Good,” the mage murmured as he noticed his straining erection. “Now then, let us begin. My lovely little sacrifice is eager to have you.”
    The scrape of metal against stone made him tense. Rhys saw the blade, glistening in the dim glow of the sconce. It was curved, and the hilt was encrusted with jewels. It was an athame; a sacred knife used in Annwyn; a ritual knife never intended to shed blood.
    He felt the cool slide of the blade teasing along his skin. The woman was gone, but he tried to bring her back. He tried to think of where his vision was going to take him next. Images of supple fingers gliding over his skin took root, and he began to imagine his dream lover touching him. He could actually feel her fondling his cock, picking it up, and bringing her mouth down over the swollen head. He pictured himself clutching her hair and holding her there while she sucked him. The image was so arousing and vivid that he barely felt the first scrape of the blade against his skin. Only when the hot flush of blood seeped onto his chest and trickled down his side did he know he’d been cut. But the potent aphrodisiac he’d been given only heightened his arousal. The pain, coupled with the images, made him rock hard.
    This was obviously what the mage wanted. He was practicing the Dark Arts—death and sex magick.
    Next, he took the tip of the knife and drew a circle around his heart. Incense swirled around him, just like the strange words coming from the mage. The knife came down, cutting in lines, and Rhys knew he had an inverted pentagram carved on his skin.
    His body burned; his throat was