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He felt the loss of my child. And I never realized…
I’ve blamed him all this time, and yet, he endured right along with me.
Gasping out a sob, my shaking hand covers the worst of the burns, pressing in as if to heal the ruined flesh. His skin is warm and alive as I rest my forehead against his heart.
“I’m so sorry,” I keen. “It’s my fault—all my fault.”
“Shh, baby,” he insists on a gruff whisper, his hands tilting my face to his. “You didn’t do this to me. None of this is on you.”
He slants his head, and his lips are once again on mine. I clutch him to me, my fingers digging into his shoulders. And then he pulls me up, his wide, strong hands at my ass, my legs wrapping around his back.
My fingers immediately sift into his hair, pulling his head to the side so I can taste the skin of his neck, his shoulder, softly nibbling at the flesh. He growls at the touch and walks us backward toward the bed. Then he turns, half-dropping me, half-laying me on the mattress, reaching for my shoes and yanking them off with a careless tug.
I sit up, my fingers already working the buckle of his belt. Just as I yank the first button of his jeans, he cups my face again, kissing me with a blistering heat. We fall back onto the mattress, and his mouth moves to my neck, licking, biting, sucking as his body moves over mine. I can’t contain the low moan that erupts from my throat.
Reaching into his jeans, I bypass the remaining buttons and snake my fingers inside his tight boxer briefs. Wrapping my hand around him, I relish the groan that vibrates from his chest. But before I can give him a good stroke, he grabs my hands, pulling my arms above my head and pressing my wrists into the mattress.
“Don’t move,” he orders, and the command in his voice causes my breath to hitch.
For once, I do as I’m told, leaving my hands right where they are as he runs his callused finger down my arms, over my breasts, down my stomach, and to my jeans. He quickly works the button and zipper, pulling the denim down my legs, along with my underwear.
My patience runs out—my ability to follow orders flying out the window—and I move from my back to my knees, reaching for his jeans.
They have to come off. Right. Now.
I manage to get the denim pushed past his knees, and before he can stop me, I wrap my hand around his impressive cock. Leaning down, I bring him to my lips, sucking his hard length into my mouth as far as I can. I revel in his scent—in the taste of him.
His feral groan vibrates through my whole body, making the wetness between my legs go from damp to flooded. I get maybe three hard sucks before I’m miraculously on my back again, his wide shoulders between my thighs. His rough hands are under my ass—he’s devouring me—his tongue at my opening, his lips on my clit, gently tugging on that bundle of nerves.
I’m about to come, and it’s too quick.
It took me one hundred and sixty years to get over our shit. I’m not coming in the first ten minutes, dammit.
“You,” I gasp, barely able to breathe. “I wanna come with you.” Tugging him up my body, I kiss myself off his lips, loving the taste of my wetness on his tongue. His hands leave my ass and go to his cock, running it up and down my slit before notching it at my opening.
Rhys’ fevered gaze practically touches me everywhere.
“You want me?” he rumbles, teasing me until I’m ready to beg.
“Please, honey. Please,” I plead, and he gives me what I want, driving his thick shaft into me all the way to the hilt.
My moan is drowned out by his fierce growl, and we nearly freeze at the sensation. Then he’s moving, thrusting into me hard enough to steal my breath.
And it’s good. So good.
I wrap my legs around his thighs, moving my hips in time with his thrusts, meeting him stroke for stroke. His right hand burrows under my back, and the left sifts through my hair. And then we’re sitting up, my body on top of his, taking his cock deeper, but sweeter—our mouths barely touching.
He turns us, my back once again pressed into the mattress as my release barrels toward me faster than a freight train. Rhys must feel the same intense pressure I do, because his thrusts become faster, rougher, less controlled. Our gazes meet and lock, the power in them enough to send me over the edge, and I come on a strangled moan. Everything inside me tightens, clamping down hard enough to ache, but in the best way.
Rhys’ coffee-colored eyes narrow into slits, and he grits his teeth, coming on a groan, his fingertips digging into my thigh hard enough to bruise, but I don’t care. The bite of pain at the end is enough to make my sex spasm around his cock in aftershocks.
His lips find mine again—hard and passionate. He gently pulls out of me and rests his head on my chest, his hard breaths tickling the skin of my breast.
“I love you too, you know,” I whisper, confessing this truth for the first time out loud.
Because it’s true. I love him, and I’m only just now figuring out that I’ve loved him for a very long time.
Before Lucien.
