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He brought his weight down on top of her and thrust into her once more, and felt his own seed begin to spill. He held himself back, though, watching her as he shifted his weight, as his coarse chest brushed against her soft, womanly curves, as she pushed up and claimed his lips with hers. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him, and something like panic filled Raffa – panic that she was going to end this. That she hadn’t wanted what he did, that he’d been wrong.
And maybe he had, because when she straddled him and took him inside, she glared at him with the force of rage he hadn’t known her capable of. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she said thickly, but she moved her hips with frantic need, pumping him, making him almost incoherent with how good she felt, how right this was.
But he wouldn’t let her control this or him. His fingers dug into her hips and he slowed her down with ease. She was tiny and he was strong. He held her low on his shaft and his eyes bore into hers. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Screw you,” she muttered, trying to move her hips, and he knew she needed to feel more of him, to feel him move. He knew pleasure was once again knocking at her door, and he held the key to opening it.
His smile was tight, his own grip on the situation spiraling way out of control. “I am.”
“Jerk.” She groaned when he pumped himself inside her, just once, just enough to remind her what this was.
“You are mine. Whenever I want you, however I say. You are mine. Tell me. Say it.”
And when she was quiet, he rolled his hips so she felt the gossamer promise of what he would give her if only she’d agree.
“I hate you,” she groaned, trying to move, trying to take him in deeper.
“So you said,” he drawled through half-shut eyes.
He loosened his grip on her hips so she was free to move again, to roll her hips and bring herself, and him, to the very edge of sanity. But before she could explode, he stilled her once more, so that her body was denied what it needed so desperately.
“I’m yours,” she cried out. “Just please don’t stop.”
Raffa swore to himself as he finally gave into what they both wanted, tipping her over the edge at the same time he exploded, so that their bodies were a mesh of pleasure and satisfaction. And as she rode the wave of release, she mumbled, over and over again like a waterfall that wouldn’t stop bubbling, “I hate you for this.”
Raffa woke with a pounding headache the next morning, and a heavy sense of something dark in his gut.
Fractured memories of the night before assailed him slowly at first, and then all at once, like a tsunami hitting land. The way he’d felt seeing Goran talking to her. The way he’d taken his anger at a decades old crime out on Chloe. The way he’d punished her, the way he’d used her sensuality against her.
The way he’d made her beg.
The way she’d told him she hated him.
The way she’d looked at him as though he were the devil incarnate.
Something like a rock settled inside of him.
Guilt. Yes, guilt. He hadn’t felt it before, and so it took him a while to identify it, but as the day progressed, he recognized the emotion and knew he deserved to feel it. It was eating him up from the inside out.
He would swim – swimming always cleared his mind.
Why had he allowed himself to become so invested in possessing her? His wife was a very beautiful means to an end, that was all. A convenient bride, chosen for her neutrality, chosen because no one faction within his country could object to her usurping all the other contenders. Chosen for her age and the ease with which it was presumed she would fall pregnant with all the heirs his country would require.
Sleeping with her was precisely about that, not about making her body tremble until he was satisfied she needed him.
What was happening to him? Why had Raffa let her get under his skin?
He dove into the water of his private pool, stroking the length as though a shark was at his heels. He would regain control of this – he would remember why he’d married her and what place she played within the kingdom.
Sex was sex, and he’d had enough of it to know that the pleasures of the flesh always faded. What they shared was special because it was new, that was all.
He would restrict their interaction to the bare minimum. Sex, for the sake of begetting an heir. Pleasure be damned.
Or so he hoped.
It was only two months. Eight weeks. That was completely normal. When proof that she hadn’t yet fallen pregnant arrived only hours after Raffa had left her room, Chloe had whispered every sort of promise to herself, to reassure herself that in most cases, it took time to fall pregnant.
Her rational mind knew that, but the part of Chloe that had presumed it would be as easy as looking at Raffa and conceiving, was breaking.
