At that moment, when they ride the crest of that wave, poised on the brink of absolute pleasure, Asher strikes.

His fangs pierce her skin, his fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, drawing her head to the side, stretching her neck taut. He drinks, letting her feel that one moment of pain before he lets his gift go free.

He doesn't hold back; half out of fear, half because he is held just as firmly in the ardeur's grip. He rolls her, utterly and completely, willing her to come, his gaze fixed upon Jean-Claude's face, one hand sneaking down to grasp his old lover's, tangle their fingers together for a moment.