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He kneels on the bed, flipping my skirt out of his way, and settles his body over mine, parting my legs with his own and lying between them as if he belongs there.
He covers me. He scorches me. He seeps into every pore of me as he grips my face and stares into my eyes.
Oh, god. This is really happening.
We’re on a collision course. I dreamed of him.
Maybe it’s fate.
I writhe, lifting my hips to meet the huge cock he’s grinding against me. Pleasure rolls through my body as I meet his next toe-curling kiss. His touch is like drowning in champagne—heady, bubbly, and smooth as it goes down.
I tug at his black T-shirt. “Marrok…”
He inches back and studies me. “Is this another hoax?”
“I need this. Need you.”
“What you make me feel is madness.”
“I don’t understand.” In the real world, he would never want plump, head-in-the-clouds me.
Reality is hugely overrated.
Especially when he reaches back to his nape, grabs a fistful of his T-shirt, and yanks it off.
Oh. My. God.
Marrok was intimidating when his shoulders strained the seams of his shirt, but now that he looms above me—a beast of raised veins and battle scars over taut muscles all covered in ink—I gape. Everything about him shouts warrior.
My mouth goes dry at the treasure trail of dark hair that disappears into his low-slung jeans. “Marrok…”
I can’t keep my hands off him, exploring his stony shoulders and his muscled chest before drifting down, until I’m flirting with the snap at his lean waist. He’s hard everywhere—pecs, arms, abs, and cock—now threatening to bust open his zipper.
Then he growls and covers me with his bare torso, his kiss dominating. He lifts my thighs against his ribs, spreading me wide, and rolls his hips, surging against my clit.
When he breaks away suddenly, he rolls me to my stomach. I protest, but he ignores me, setting impatient fingers at my waist trainer and undoing the laces as if he’s worked his way into a woman’s corset many, many times. When he’s finished, he rolls me over again and shoves both it and the remnants of my torn shirt off.
Cool air and his hot gaze hit me. All that stands between Marrok and my breasts is a clinging scrap of white lace.
He tears it away and flings the strappy wire garment across the room. His hungry stare falls on my nipples.
They bead harder under his scrutiny.
“So tempting…” He skims his knuckles across one.
Tingles skitter to life. My pussy clenches. “Please…”
He palms my breast, caressing, fondling, thumbing the aching point. I gasp. The sound hangs between us as he squeezes the sensitive bud. “I will suck these. Raw. You will beg me to stop. I will not listen.”
His words make my pussy clench. I pulse even harder when he wraps his lips around my nipple. He sucks it ruthlessly rough while his fingers tend to its twin, alternately grazing and tugging, making me wetter and driving me insane. He alternates, back and forth. Back and forth, consuming my breasts—keeping his promise—until every nerve screams. Until my nipples feel tender and swollen. Until they hurt deliciously.
“Marrok…”
“I warned you.” He directs his attention to the other taut tip, dragging it between his teeth before nipping it hard.
He continues with his torment—pinching, biting, sucking—getting more demanding with every pass.
I love it.
