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One lucky lady shows off her man; the result is CFNM fun.

I am going to enjoy you."

The hand in her hair pushed her forward. She stumbled and fell on the bed as he let go. She flipped over, facing him. The first thing she noticed was a smear of crimson on his mouth. Her blood. A shiver danced over her arms. Then she saw the rest of him. He was every grown, experienced woman's fantasy of what a vampire should be. Tall, dark and handsome didn't begin to cover it. Midnight black hair fell past strong shoulders, tamed back by a thin strip of velvet at the nape of his neck. The silk spilling from his shoulders and crawling over a powerful chest seemed more an afterthought than an affectation. The same could be said for the black pants clinging to his hips, but Sinclair refused to look that low. Once her gaze flicked below his chin, they snapped back up. She didn't meet his eyes, for that would be the end of her. She focused instead on that fleck of colour marring his perfect mouth. Her heart raced faster. Her skin warmed. That mouth. What would it feel like to feel that mouth sliding over her again? It was so hot. So soft. Her own lips parted slightly. Her fingers lifted, reaching for her mouth.

She gasped and snarled, shaking her head to break the effect. Both arms raised, words of angry power painting the air. Concentration etched across her forehead, but the accompanying surge of divine might was absent from her hands. Slowly, with an infuriating smile, Lord Mirath held up her holy symbol, dangling from its leather thong.

"Missing something?"

Sinclair scrambled back across the bed and leapt to her feet. She whirled and aimed for a door. He was blocking the path out, but one of the others must surely lead to the hallway eventually. She knew the chances of making even the first were slim, but she had to try. For Ethan's sake. For her own sake. She gripped the handle and wrenched it, tumbling through. She yanked it behind her, panic removing reason, and quickly assessed the room.

One look and she knew she was screwed. There were no other exits. This room was a private library. Bookshelves with seriously old tomes lined the walls. She had a passing thought of wonder. Such treasure that could be found here. Perhaps long forgotten spells, potion recipes, enchantments. She scowled again, breaking the moment. Any second now, when he stopped laughing, he was coming through that door, and she would be trapped. Her eyes fell on the fireplace and the used bits of wood.

When he finally opened the door, evidence of his amusement still twitching his mouth, he burst into fresh laughter. Sinclair stood, her chin raised high, her holy symbol drawn on the hardwood floor around her. The charred stick she had used as a pencil was clenched firm in one hand.

"You can't cross this, no matter how powerful you are." Her belief was strong in her voice. Fear had left her. Mostly.

He cocked his head and chuckled. "True enough. But how long can you stand there? Eventually, you will tire. Grow hungry. Feel the need to tend the private issues of the living. How long, little cleric, before a single toe breaks the line?"

She quivered, and recovered. "I can stand as long as it takes. You have to sleep some time. And when you do, when your true nature takes control of you, I'll be free." She jerked her chin up again, and in a moment of bravado, looked him square in gleaming emerald eyes. "To kill you."

He smiled, "So we are at a standstill, yes? I can't get to you, you can't get to me until I rest. I am very old, child. I can go a long stretch before my bed becomes a siren's call I can't avoid. " He stepped closer. "I cannot cross your lines. But you can."

He held out one well formed hand and a shock rippled through her chest. His voice lowered, seemingly coming from within her. His eyes began to dance, flecks of gold rising and falling as he coaxed, "Come to me. Come to me. Now."

Somewhere deep inside, a distant voice screamed in horrified denial as one foot shifted, then stepped over the line.

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