Page 230 of The Sun He Buried

“Sweetheart.” Half a warning.

She ignores it. Takes me in her hand, then her mouth, and the bond detonates. Her lips stretched around the head of me from her side, the wet heat of her tongue from mine, and under all of it the filthy truth that she feels how good she’s making it—feels my cock like it’s hers, feels exactly what undoes me, and uses it.

Gods.

She works me deeper, eyes up on my face the whole time, and she’s got the map now—the bond hands her every place that wrecks me and she hits each one on purpose, hollows her cheeks, takes me to the back of her throat until she gags and does it again anyway, spit slicking down her chin.

The thing in me that’s never knelt to anyone is coming apart on the end of her mouth, and she feels how much I hate that it’s her undoing me and how much more I love it.

“Filthy girl.” I get a hand in her hair—not to stop her. To feel it. “Look at you. On your knees with my cock in your mouth, and still the one running me.”

She moans around me and the sound of it goes straight up the bond and nearly ends this here.

Not yet.

I fist her hair and take it back—feed it to her slow, let her feel me take over, and she lets me, throat working, eyes locked on mine.

“There she is. Take it. Take all of it.” The bond gives me her pride at pleasing me tangled up with her own filthy joy at being used for it, and it’s nearly enough.

Which is why I stop.

I draw her off me by the hair—she comes up gasping, mouth swollen and slick, and the sound she makes at losing it is obscene—and lift her back onto the table.

“Still choosing?”

Both eyes come up, wet and blown black. “Yes.”

“Then put me where you want me, sweetheart.”

She opens her legs and drags me between them by the hips, the head of me right where she’s swollen and dripping.

“Inside. Now, Eirik.”

I push in slow, and every inch reaches me twice—the grip of her from her side, my own drag from mine—until I have to stop halfway just to keep my head. She’s tight and soaked and stretched around me, and I feel exactly what that does to her, because it’s doing it to me.

“Gods, you feel—” She can’t finish it.

I seat the rest of the way and hold there, buried. Her palms come up and cover the open brands along my jaw. The pain goes through me white. She feels it and lifts her hands.

“Leave them.”

“But—”

“Leave them.”

Her hands settle back over the brands. The hurt folds into the heat until it’s the same nerve, and I stop trying to keep them apart.

Then I fuck her.

I pull nearly out and drive back in, and the table jumps against the wall. She cries out, and the bond gives me the word under it before she finds it—more—so I give her more before she asks, hips snapping into her hard enough to walk us both across the wood.

“That’s it. Take it.” A hand under her, holding her where I want her. “You wanted the truth of me. This is it.”

Every filthy thing I feel goes straight into her—how good her cunt is around me, how close she’s already dragged me, how long I’ve wanted this and hated wanting it. It loops, her pleasure spiking mine and mine spiking hers, neither of us holding the line.

Snow gusts through the broken shutter and melts on her throat. The cold doesn’t reach either of us.

“You feel that?” Wrecked. “That’s you. That’s what you do to me.”