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Suddenly, he wraps his arm around me and presses me against his wide, hair-roughened chest. My relief is instant. I melt into a quivering puddle.
Without thought, I curl closer, clutching one bulging shoulder and steadying myself on the hard rise of his pectorals.
My traitorous fingers trace the ridges of his six-pack, skirting dangerously close to his steely cock, rising thick and tall between us. I bite my lip and fight the urge to stroke him until he desires me as much as I need him.
When he groans, I snatch my hand back and scoot away.
This has to stop. We may be mates, but that’s in name only. I can’t imagine two people more ill-suited than a Dark Ages warrior and a twenty-first century American. And I refuse to beg the man who lied to me—who’s only using me to break his curse—to roll me to my back, crush my mouth under his, and fill me in one savage thrust.
Even if I want him to.
Nothing about our time together has been real. Every moment he’s spent with me—the incredible pleasure and the possessive protection—just smoke and mirrors. Machinations and bullshit.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s not quite two in the morning. I’m exhausted, but my body is on red alert—belly clenching, nipples peaking, pussy aching.
Too bad. I’m too angry. I roll to the far edge of the bed.
My energy evaporates. Dizziness swoops in. I close my eyes to stop the spinning room. But that only focuses my attention on every inflamed cell and sizzling nerve that clamors for Marrok.
Tears sting my eyes. Defeat is bitter.
Fate and magic are playing a cruel joke on me. After being a burden to my mother, I’m now dependent on this man. Except this is worse. I only needed food and clothes from Mom. I require Marrok for sex.
It’s humiliating.
Unfortunately, self-pity won’t change my reality. Neither will stubbornness.
I try reaching across the chasm between us, but I can barely move. The edges of my vision turn black. Shit, am I going to pass out?
Panic sets in. Pain, too. I whimper and curl into the fetal position.
Why did my heart magic compel me to spew those stupid words and seal our union? I can’t remember exactly what drove me to say them. I only recall my euphoric joy when he accepted.
Of course he told me what I wanted to hear. I gave him the perfect way to exploit me. At best, he’s using me. At worst, he pities me.
God, I want to retch.
I’m trapped in this hell of my making. I need him, or I’ll die.
But I refuse to be a sacrificial lamb. From now on, I’ll hit him and quit him. He’ll be my walking, talking sex toy. Nothing more.
Through sheer will, my fingers twitch. I curl my knuckles, then form a fist. I reach my trembling hand out for Marrok. It’s as if I’m swimming through thick water against a raging current. My frustration and anger beat back encroaching fatigue. The chasm across the bed feels like a continent, but I refuse to give up.
After another incremental gesture, Marrok’s body heat reaches me. I graze him with my pinkie. Relief pours into me as I touch steel under silk and scars, dusted with hair. His forearm.
Sparks zip through my veins, followed by a hot wash of unbridled need.
Across the mattress, I inhale him—musky, earthy, and woodsy. It’s masculine and complex, just like Marrok. A rush of pleasure jolts me, fierce and sizzling.
Don’t feel anything. Get what you need and get away. Stop falling for him.
Easier said than done.
Too bad merely touching him won’t keep me “charged” or whatever term magic has for this inescape clause. Without Marrok deep inside me, I won’t even have enough energy to leave this bed.
Steeling myself, I sidle closer and gather the last of my energy to fling my leg over Marrok’s thighs and climb on top of him. He’s like scaling a mountain, so huge in every way.
I manage to straddle his hips, bracing myself against his shoulders and grinding against his cock. God, he feels good.
