Mate (Bride, #2) (73)

His eyes are nothing but pupil. “Are you warm?”

I think about it. Nod. “In a nice way.” A deep inhale. “You smell so good.”

“What else?” He takes one of my wrists and lifts it to his face. Inhales deeply, as if searching for a lost trail. The brush of his nose against my skin feels better than the best sex I’ve had in my life. “Headaches? Nausea?

Dizziness?”

I chuckle. “I am not, at the moment, experiencing every single prescription drug’s side effect.” However, my breasts do ache. I writhe against Koen’s chest, and I’m not sure it looks dignified, but it feels sensational. The friction. The low growl in his throat. “Maybe you and I could . . .”

Okay. Fine. This is about sex. Me, and Koen, and sex. I rub my thighs together, because my lower belly feels like a bowstring, pulled tighter and tighter, warmer and warmer, a pool of liquid heat—

Koen mutters something that sounds like shit and spins me around.

My palms meet the counter, on both sides of the sink.

I glance up. See, reflected in what’s left of the mirror, my flushed face and glassy eyes. I try to tilt the curve of my ass against his thighs. If I were taller, I could feel his . . .

“You can . . .” Fuck me. Even as overwhelmingly aroused, as dripping wet as I am, I can’t bring myself to say it. I try again. “We can do whatever you like, I . . .” Will do whatever you ask me to. For you. Don’t you believe it? Try me. Teach me how to deal with all of this .

But Koen commands “Stay still” and does something very weird.

Swipes the hair away from the back of my neck.

Angles my head down an inch or two.

Bends to run the flat of his tongue against the first few vertebrae of my spine.

And I fucking die.

“Oh my God.” The sound I let out is indecent. So outrageously shameless, I have to close my eyes and pretend it wasn’t mine. It’s just—

nothing has ever felt as good as being licked by Koen, there. Even if the act was clearly not meant to be seductive. In fact, it was more akin to someone tasting a dish to check if they added the right amount of salt.

And there must be something wrong with the flavor profile. Because he mutters a low, deep, soulful, “Fuck.”

His tone is like a wrecking ball hitting my belly. It jolts me awake, clears my head some, and . . . What the hell am I doing, coming on to Koen like this? Am I out of my mind?

I must be. “Is it happening? Am I dying?”

He exhales a soundless laugh that’s as clear a no as anything.

I turn around in his arms. Find his cheeks dark with blood. “What, then?”

“You’ll be okay,” he promises, breathing nearly as fast as me. “It’s going to pass. Are you in pain?”

I’m far past lying. I look him in the eye and admit, “No, but I’m afraid that if you don’t . . . touch me right now, I’m going to start crying. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to beg. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to

— to break into a million pieces and beg you some more, and I’ll do anything if— ”

He groans and gathers me. Presses me tight to him for a short, blissful moment. But the heat builds up quickly inside me, and when I start squirming against the hard part of him poking into my stomach, he pulls back and says carefully, “I have to leave, Serena.”

“What?”

“You have no understanding of what’s going on.”

Panic climbs up my throat. “And you do?”

“Yes, killer. I do.” He tries to step around me, but the heat in my belly simmers, and . . . I can’t let him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His hand is curled around my waist. So close to where I want it. Up a few inches. Down some.

And yet he doesn’t move it. I may be about to tear up. “If you don’t want me, just be honest about it.”

His eyes close. “Serena.” He sounds like he’s in physical pain.

“Because I want to— ”

“This has fuck all to do with wanting. You’re not in the position to decide— ”

“That’s not for you to say, and— ” Whatever clarity broke through earlier, it’s rapidly dissipating. Something warm and syrupy builds up inside my abdomen, making me want to crawl out of my skin. Everything’s too tight. Too empty. “Whatever this is, it’s getting worse. And I dream about you all the time, and— ” I hold his eyes and take his hand to drag it between my legs, certain that if he feels me there, the mess I’ve made of myself, the steady, dripping arousal, then he’ll get it. But my movements are sloppy and uncoordinated.

What the hell am I doing? Am I out of my mind? I can’t make Koen touch me. I don’t want to make anyone touch me.

Except, and I know this with bone-deep certainty, I need someone to touch me.

“I get it. You don’t have to . . . Is there anyone else who could help me with . . .”

It’s a stupid question, and the second I articulate it, I realize that the simple idea of someone else touching me makes me want to tear the flesh off my bones. But going by Koen’s deep, guttural, displeased grunt, he doesn’t know that.

“You’re not going to— fuck it.” He carries me to bed, sits on the edge of the mattress, and pulls me down between his spread legs, facing away from him. Almost in his lap. When I try to grind backward, chasing his erection, he stops me with a hold that immobilizes my arms at my sides. It’s a little like a straitjacket, made of thick muscles and scent. Exactly what I need. I got you, it tells me. I no longer have to control myself, because he’s doing that for me. I have permission to beg and thrash in his arms.