The pools of Lucien's and Ivan's blood were of no concern to Isolde and Severin as they explored each other's bodies.
Isolde lay naked on the prison cell floor, her bare skin against the crimson puddles of Lucien and Ivan's blood. At the same time, Severin hovered over her, his hands, lips, and warm tongue roaming and caressing every inch of her.
Severin ignored the metallic tang of blood staining Isolde's skin each time he pressed his lips to another inch of her bare body.
Severin was not the type to indulge his bed partner's body. He had never cared about a woman's pleasure—only his own. He would take what he wanted, finish, and leave each woman to do whatever they pleased afterward. Severin had never lowered himself to press his lips to any woman's body—whether it was Renata, Tiffara, or the countless other prostitutes he had slept with.
