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His lips brushed mine, so soft, but they could be sharp too. I knew what he was, who he was, and while I couldn’t pretend not to be shocked, it all made up Lark: the man I loved, the good and the bad and all the messy, complicated parts in between.
“I feel I must warn you,” he whispered. “I’ve been thinking of little else but getting my hands on you since dispatching the bounty hunter.”
Pain, violence, it aroused him, and in any court outside of his, he’d have been considered wrong for those feelings. He wasn’t wrong; he was brilliant and perfect, dark and delicious. He was beautiful and deadly, my beautiful lie. But the lie was the one he told himself. He wasn’t nothing. He was everything.
“Hungry, are you?” I asked.
He roamed his hands up my back, fingers feeling their way, while leaning in, as though to seal our kiss and begin what we both knew was coming. “So hungry it hurts.”
I ground my hips, rubbing against his rigid erection. Like this, Lark was a drug; he did things to me I had no control over, made me want things I hadn’t known could elicit pleasure. I really had been lost behind a door, until he’d opened it.
His stained fingers skimmed my face, and I didn’t care how the murdered man’s bloody scent clung to him. Perhaps even liked it, if I were honest. But overthinking now would get in the way of feeling, and nobody made me feel to the depths of my soul like he did. As though we were the whole world, and nothing existed outside of his touch, his mouth—now on my neck while his hands fought to get inside my clothes. He tugged and pulled, stripping off my layers, and then his hot mouth was on my chest, tongue swirling, his hands expertly bringing me to hardness.
“How do you not find me repulsive?” he whispered, dropping to his knees.
Did he believe he was? Not Lark, the man everyone at the Court of Love had admired. Lark, who commanded every gaze the moment he walked into a room. I looked down; he looked up from my navel, where he’d been fluttering kisses, and his expression was so raw it hurt my heart. I grabbed his mop of hacked-at hair and hauled him into a furious kiss. I’d make him forget all thoughts like that one so he never had them again. I shoved, slamming him against the sideboard. He hissed. His knees spread, bracketing me close, and he met my kiss with his own ferocity. Something toppled off the sideboard, perhaps the knife. I tore at his bloody shirt, needing to taste him, to swallow him, to have him inside me, all of him at once. But before that, I had a question to answer, and it was damned important.
I clutched his face in my hands, leaving him no choice but to see me and see how much I meant this. “You want to know why?”
He seemed pained again, as though he might dread what came next. After everything, all my mistakes, my messes, my failures, he believed he was the one who didn’t deserve me? “Because I love you.” I’d said it before, but it hadn’t seemed enough.
His blunt teeth dipped into his bottom lip and his eyes widened. “You truly love me?” he whispered.
Gods, I’d expected him to be happy, not look as though I’d torn his heart from his chest. “I suppose that secret of mine is yours now too.” I chuckled, trying to make light of my confession in the hope it stopped him hurting.
He lunged and kissed my mouth slowly, sliding his tongue in, seeking acceptance, confirmation, and the truth. Did he think I was lying? I clutched the back of his head and deepened the kiss, needing him to know I didn’t confess such things lightly. Ididlove him and if he didn’t believe my words, then I’d make him feel it, because while our words sometimes deceived, our bodies did not.
I tugged his clothes apart, freeing them of buttons and laces, and then reached his warm, flushed chest with my hands and mouth. He tasted sweet under my tongue and quivered beneath my lips. I didn’t know what I was doing, just that I needed to feel him in every possible way. He braced his hands to either side of him on the sideboard, bending backward, giving me all of him to tease and sample. His shirt was gone, his trousers hung open and clung to his hips, and in a moment of indecision, I stepped back, admiring how he sprawled there, panting, hard and desperate. He was beautiful before, but now, stained by blood, his beauty gained a razor’s edge.
“Like what you see?” he asked, eyebrow arching.
I flew back in, clutched his hair in one hand, and wrapped my fingers around his neck, making him gasp and freezing him rigid. “You make me wild, make me insane—” I pushed the words against his panting mouth. He liked it when we fought, when it hurt. And perhaps I did too. I freed his neck and dropped my hand to his hard, weeping cock. I still had him by the hair, and his wide eyes drank me down while I gathered the smooth wetness from his tip and slid my hand down his length. It wasn’t enough. Closer, I needed to be closer.
I dropped to my knees and took him deep, hearing him spit a curse. His hands plunged into my hair and twisted, sparking pain as he tugged, driving his cock deeper between my lips, over my tongue, down my throat. I gagged, choked, and even that didn’t matter. Lark lifted my head, checking my face, my smile, then plunged back in. I spluttered around his width, unable to take his full length. But it wasn’t all about swallowing him deep. I wrapped my hand around his base and pumped, then worked my tongue, muscling around his tip, combining sucking and stroking until his moans deepened to guttural panting. Gods, yes, I wanted him to come, to lose himself in me, but he needed more, he needed that sharp edge, that painful bite, to tip him over the edge.
The knife lay on the floor beside us. Bloody, forgotten. All I had to do was pick it up and cut him. Like Razak had, time and time again. He’d had my Lark under him, kept him prisoner, bound and chained him. He’d fucked him, hurt him, made him bleed. And I… couldn’t do that.
Lark cupped my face, pulled me off his cock, and drew me to my feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing—” I lunged and kissed him as though my kiss could burn away the horrible things he’d endured.
Dropping my hand, I encircled his slick and straining dick, sliding down its length. He arched under me, driving his hips forward, and his dick into my fist. I had him now, pinned to the sideboard, attacking his mouth and his cock at once. I pumped hard, fast, desperately needing to feel him come undone. I thrust my tongue against his, taking everything he gave in return. “Come for me.”
Dark eyes sparkled. His bruised, plump lips parted.
He was close, but he needed more. His breath stuttered, his body twitched and bucked, and his cock—so hot and hard, desperate for release—leaked pre-cum. His gaze begged when his words could not. This moment was its own kind of torture; he rode the very edge of orgasm, and I could keep him there, keep him from falling… Was that what Razak had done?
I snarled the Prince of Pain from my head, nuzzled Lark’s neck, sucked his skin between my teeth, and bit deeply. Lark cried out, clutched my head, my ass, and warm, smooth cum hit my wrist. We swayed, rocking as one, riding his climax together, and gods, I was so primed, it would only take a touch for me to spill. And as though Lark knew, he grasped me through my trousers, gave several rough, messy pumps, and I came within moments, spilling in my undergarments against the heat of Lark’s hand.
We clung to each other, breathless, sweat-soaked, and wet with cum and blood.
Lark’s soft fingers skimmed my jaw, then tilted my chin up. “I am far from done with you.”
CHAPTER13
Lark
Three daysand nights we lay together, eating when we fancied, indulging in physical pleasure, dozing side by side, but as with all good things, it came to an end too soon.
