Claimed by the Dragon and Vampire

Milan's POV

I never imagined that in the darkest moment of my life, it would be a stranger's tongue that gave me my first taste of relief.

The man beneath me swept his tongue across that sensitive spot again, sending a jolt of electric pleasure straight through me. I involuntarily clenched my thighs, nearly crushing his head between them. What shocked me most was that the burning pain in my stomach—the agony that had tortured me since this morning's test results—had vanished completely.

Gone.

In its place was a warm, almost comfortable sensation, like something warm and slow unwinding deep inside me.

I looked down at that focused, handsome face beneath me, his tongue working skillfully inside me, licking and sucking with maddening skill.

"Terminal stage," the doctor's voice from this morning's phone call echoed in my mind. "Miss Atlantici, I'm sorry to inform you that your stomach cancer has reached the terminal stage. Based on the extent of metastasis, you likely have only a few months left, no more than six months at most."

Six months. One hundred and eighty days. And I was only eighteen, hadn't truly experienced life's beauty, hadn't tasted what sex felt like, hadn't even found someone who genuinely loved me. All I had was a hypocritical family, a cheating fiancé, and this body being devoured by cancer cells.

But now, in this dim private room, when his tongue pressed hard against my G-spot, what I felt wasn't just sexual pleasure—that comfortable sensation in my stomach almost made me want to cry.

This was the first time in three months, since the stomach pain began tormenting me, that I'd felt no pain at all.

"Oh, fuck," I gasped, bracing my hands against his solid abs, feeling the rise and fall of his eight-pack beneath my palms. "Your tongue is so hot... Could you slow down? It's too much..."

He ignored me completely and sped up instead. His tongue swirled madly inside me, licking and sucking, while his hands climbed upward restlessly to tease my nipples.

Pleasure crashed over me in waves, layer upon layer, until my body began trembling uncontrollably. I shifted position, pressing my hands against his chest for support, but he seemed to sense I was approaching the edge and ground his tongue even harder against that spot that drove me insane. Under the dual stimulation, I couldn't hold back anymore—a suppressed scream tore from my throat as my entire body convulsed in spasms.

The aftershocks still rippled through my body as I savored the aftershocks still rolling through me, grinding against his face with lingering desire. "Don't stop," I panted.

That's when my phone rang.

I frowned, ready to ignore it, but the ringtone persisted stubbornly. I reached over to the couch to grab my phone, and when I saw the caller ID, all those beautiful feelings evaporated instantly.

Tyrone.

My fiancé. The bastard I'd grown up with, who claimed to love me but fucked other women behind my back.

"Milan, where are you? Why aren't you answering your phone? I've been worried sick about you!" Tyrone's anxious voice came through the line.

A week ago, I would have been moved to tears by this "concern." But ever since last week when I saw that surveillance footage—his cock driving into some stranger—his fist yanking her hair back, forcing her down until she gagged—ever since I saw that, his voice only made me sick.

"What happens to me is none of your goddamn business, Tyrone. Stop calling me," I said coldly, though the man's tongue was still inside me, making my voice tremble slightly.

"Milan, what's wrong with you? Our wedding is next month, the invitations have already been sent out..." His voice carried confusion and irritation. "Wait, what are you doing? Why does your voice sound so strange?"

I looked down at that handsome face covered in my wetness, and a dark, satisfying thrill shot through me.

"Because!" I deliberately raised my voice, grinding harder against his face in spiteful satisfaction. "Because right now I'm sitting on a man's face, and he's about to make me come with his tongue!"

I heard Tyrone gasp sharply on the other end. I could imagine his expression—shocked, furious. Meanwhile, the tongue inside me hit my G-spot again, dissipating half my anger in an instant.

"Milan! Have you lost your mind? How could you—"

"I've lost my mind?" I cut him off, my voice dripping with mockery. "Tyrone, what the fuck gives you the right to say I've lost my mind? You think I don't know? You claim you want a virtuous woman, make me stay pure for you, while you're out there fucking every slut you can find—tell me, who's really lost their mind?"

"That—that was an accident, Milan. I was drunk, I didn't mean to..."

"Fuck your accident! Go to hell!" I shrieked. The man beneath me seemed startled by my emotional outburst, his tongue pausing briefly.

After those words, something coiled and bitter inside me finally let go. I viciously pressed the end call button and tossed my phone aside.

To hell with him. Don't ruin my mood.

I took a deep breath, trying to get back into the moment, and said to the man beneath me, "Keep going. Where were we?"

But he didn't move.

His hands gripped my waist and lifted me off his face, positioning us face to face.

"The service is over, Miss Atlantici." His voice was calm, but something flickered in those deep blue eyes.

"What?" I froze for a moment, then said angrily, "I didn't say it was over, so it's not."

"My face is covered in your pussy juice and you're going to deny it?" he said flatly. "I agreed to make you feel good, not to make you feel good multiple times."

There was a coldness in his tone, almost dismissive—like he was the one doing me a favor. This attitude infuriated me completely—I was sick of being looked down on, sick of being manipulated. In my short eighteen years, my parents had treated me as a tool for political marriage, my fiancé had treated me like a fool he could deceive at will, doctors had pronounced my death sentence, and now even a man I'd paid for dared to speak to me like this?

I slapped him across the face.

The sharp crack echoed in the private room. His face turned to the side, a red handprint rapidly appearing on his cheek.

"How the hell did your manager train you?" I said coldly, my voice full of contempt. "Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?"

He stared at me blankly, something indescribable flashing through those deep blue eyes—hurt? Anger? Disappointment? I didn't know and didn't care.

My interest was completely gone. The argument with Tyrone on the phone had reminded me of all the terrible things in my life—and the pain in my stomach was beginning to return.

I picked up my underwear from the floor and put it on, then pulled a thick stack of bills from my purse and threw it at him.

"Six thousand dollars. Your service fee. Take it and get out."