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And yet … she knew it was him. Would’ve known it blindfolded. Whether by scent or some more primitive means—perhaps an alchemy of souls—she felt him bone-deep.

Godric. Poised above her.

Godric. Withdrawing his cock in one long, pulling slide.

Godric. Flexing his hips back into her with a final twist at the end.

He was overpowering her senses, laying claim to her soul.

She struggled internally, resisting, closing her eyes, dropping her hands from his arms, trying to shut away her senses.

But that was impossible. How could it not be? He was making love to her.

She tried her best, she really did, and in the end she had one small victory: As his thrusts grew harder and closer to his point, she held herself together. He shook against her, rubbing into her, making her feel, but she was stubborn and strong, and when finally he shuddered, the dark shape of his head arching back, it was by himself.

She had no time to congratulate herself.

He leaned down in the dark and she thought he meant to kiss her. She turned her head aside and it was in her ear he whispered huskily, so close she could feel the brush of his lips.

“Who are you making love to, my lady? For I know it’s not me.”

Chapter Twelve

Faith was hungry as she clung to the Hellequin’s broad back. She fished in a pocket of her dress and took out a small apple. The Hellequin’s nostril’s flared as she bit into the sweet-tart flesh.

Faith was abashed at her discourtesy. “Would you like some?”

“I have not eaten the food of men for a millennium,” the Hellequin rasped.

“Well, then,” said Faith, “it’s past time you did so.”

She bit off a piece of the apple, and taking it from her own mouth, held it to his. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

At his words Megs froze beneath him.

Rage was pumping through Godric’s veins, corrosive and hot, expanding, making him feel as if he’d explode from inside if he didn’t get out of here at once. He gingerly withdrew from her silky depths, moving carefully so as not to hurt her.

He’d never in his life worried that he might harm a woman in shear anger.

His movement shifted the covers, stirring the scent of semen and sex and her. He couldn’t think; his emotions were overwhelming him.

“I didn’t—” she started, foolish wench.

How dare she try to deny it?

“Quiet,” he bit out, sliding from the bed.

“Godric.”

“Will you leave it?” he hissed, turning on her in the dark. He had to leave before he said something—did something—he would regret.

But she was ever contrary. He felt her fingers wrap around his wrist, feminine and strong.

He stilled.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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