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He moves fast. Hands on my waist, lifting me off the bench and setting me on his lap with graceful ease. My legs straddle his thighs. And if I’m not mistaken, he wants me to feel the growing length in his trousers, pressing against my center. Excited panic splashed over my face like unexpected summer rain.
“Dessin,” I utter.
“There,” he says, low and gravelly. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Those powerful hands slide down from my waist to my hips, then circling around to my curvy bottom. He squeezes, and I’m melting against him. An icicle becoming a puddle in a new season’s warmth. He jerks me harder against him, pressing his heavy erection against me at an agonizing angle.
“Do you feel that?” His voice is vicious and taunting. The exact calculated tone that he used on others in the asylum. A mask. The alpha coming out to play.
I nod.
His eyes are glazed, nothing like the clear focus I usually see.
“That’s what happens when you touch me, Skylenna.” He reaches for his chalice, taking a small sip. “How agonizing that must have been for me in the asylum. My hands shackled to the wall while you kneeled at my feet. Those pretty hands grasping my arms.”
My lips part. But I can’t speak.
“You were clueless then, weren’t you?” His hands tighten around my backside. “If I keep you in my lap long enough, will I start to feel that slickness between your legs?”
My gasp is audible. Stuttering and loud.
He pauses, staring down at my parted lips like he wants to lick them, bite them, take them into his mouth. For a moment, as brief as it might be, I think he might kiss me. Finally, instead, he lifts his chalice again.
“Roll your hips against me,” he commands, blinking slowly as if to clear that lustful haze from behind his lids. “I want to feel how warm you are while I finish my drink.”
I hesitate, unsure of how to do what he’s asking of me. I arch my back away from him, then roll my hips forward to meet his hardness again. My core tightens, aching for something to fill it.
Dessin hisses in his cup.
Sexual energy vibrates through my bones. This motion feels natural. Primal. Like I was born to move against him like this. My stomach somersaults and my center is suddenly slick and hot, tingling from my thighs to my ribs.
I do it again and again until the motion starts an animalistic frenzy in me. A guttural moan rushes from my throat. Dessin’s jaw flexes, and he sighs like he’s been waiting for this for far too long.
“Tell me how good that feels,” he growls.
“Feels… amazing,” I pant, lowering my forehead to his as my hands clasp the back of his neck. Oh god. I’ve wanted to put my hands freely on him since I met him. The desire seemed unquenchable.
Movement distracts me. A man bends a woman over a table, tossing plates of food to the floor. I’m certain they’re about to cross over from foreplay to actual intercourse.
Two firm fingers lock around my chin, turning me back to Dessin.
“I am the only man that gets your eyes tonight.” He looks up at me from under a curtain of dark lashes. A scolding that tastes like pleasure and euphoria. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.” The simple response of respect spills out of me before I realize all he wanted was for me to repeat his statement to confirm what I heard.
And at my words, Dessin unfolds.
6. The New Game
There’s a brief look he gives me.
A warning.
A flare of caution.
A chance for me to run, to hide, to leave without consequence. Because he’s about to rip me apart.
