“Stop—”
“Never,” he snarls, stamping more crushing pressure along my body. Letting me eat up his weight and bathing me in his masculine scent. “I’llneverstop hunting this pulse.” He presses a kiss against my neck that burns like an icy brand.
He wouldn’t be saying that if he knew what I was capable of.
What I’ve done.
I want to scrape the admittance into his skin with the blunt of my nails.
He rolls his hips, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips when his solid shaft grinds against the softest part of me, assuaging that restless ache.
“Show me ...”
His words come to me through the fog of rapture as I raise my hips to meet another roll of his, making his cock—barely sheathed by his soft pants—charge at my opening with every breaching intention.
I moan, absorbing the drum of delicious heat, widening my legs so his next thrust assaults every flushed and swollen part of my aching core. My hands dig down the carved brawn of his back, beneath the band of his pants, where they settle on his flexing ass as he stabs his hips forward again.
Andagain.
That throb incinerates me from the inside out, and I whimper, wanting to delve my hand between us and rip my pants right off.
“Milaje, I saidshow me—”
I tip my head to give him full access to my throat, my body devouring another blunt thrust.
“Sh-show you what?”
I want him to fuck me. To use me and wreck me.
I want to do the same to him.
He cups the side of my face, hips stilling as he catches my stare.
Holds it hostage.
“Yourdamage.”
I still. Even my heart gutters to a halt.
He doesn’t want my body. He wants my fuckingsoul.
No.
I shove his chest. “Get off me.”
He does—instantly—pulling back so fast I gasp from the shock of his sudden absence. Then he’s charging into the washroom like an angry shadow, leaving me in the wake of his emotional warfare.
The sound of falling water reaches me through the open door, followed by a thick fog of steam that’s allhim.A narcotic dose of primal desire that stirs me up in filthy ways I should be ashamed of. I squeeze my eyes shut, tunneling down on that well of self-hatred, pinching the back of my arm so hard my eyes blaze with a fresh promise of tears.
No. He does not get to pick me apart and analyze my insides. To look at me like he wants to thread me back together.
He does not get to be my fuckinghero.
Pushing off the bed, I unbutton my shirt, then yank it off, unbinding my achy breasts that fall heavy and free. I remove my pants and underwear, digging through my bag for my blade and gripping it tight. My hair is a weight against my bare back, brushing the curve of my ass as I sway toward that doorway, swallowing the remaining scraps of trepidation and dropping myself into that cold, dead place that feels nothing.
The room is larger than I thought it would be, the chiseled rock dominated by a wall of falling water spilling from a slit in the top crease between roof and wall. But it all pales in significance tohim.
Naked. Glorious. Brutally statuesque.
