Yanking them down.
Tossing them aside, I straddle him, greedy gaze sweeping his body. He’s a work of art tangled amongst the silken sheets, his manhood resting against his belly, the tip almost meeting with his belly button.
He reaches up, cupping my face, looking at me in the same way he did in that small, lopsided dwelling. Like he’d catch a fallen moon for me. Only this time it doesn’t chafe, because we’re shaping memories from silt. Something that can be washed away with the next torrential downpour.
I fall into that look like it’s my salvation, nuzzling his hand.
Cupping it closer.
He groans, brows bunching. “You’re magnificent.”
My heart skips a beat.
The words …
The look in his eyes …
The way he’s holding my face …
I could revel in him for eternity and never stop marveling. More evidence that whatever pulled Elluin away hurt.
I lift a brow—a pitiful effort to lighten the mood. “You’re biased, Sire. And perhaps forgetting the fact that I almost hacked you open more than once.”
“No. I’m fucking obsessed,” he growls, wrapping his other hand around my face and jerking me forward.
Our lips crush together, and I swallow his guttural sounds as I grind against his solid length, rekindling that ravenous throb. His fingers feather down my spine that curves into his touch, his firm hands gripping my hips, urging me to roll deeper.
Harder.
Breaking our kiss, I pepper more down the column of his throat to the sound of his gravelly moans, savoring each languid press of my lips upon his skin like a sip of life. I plant more upon each of the scars on his chest.
Around the side of his ribs.
I map the constellation of his pain with my mouth—imagining each slow, tender kiss absorbing a little of his violent history—moving down his abdominals, past his navel, taking his thick, hard cock in my hand.
My mouth waters, core pulsing at how hard he is for me.
How ready and wanting.
My lashes flick up.
I hold his volcanic stare and flatten my tongue against the velvety base, then drag it all the way to the tip, traversing a web of bulging veins. His hips buck as my tongue sweeps over the rim, lapping the salty bead of precum dripping from the slit.
He hisses, jerking.
I wrap my lips around the swollen tip and drop low, opening my throat, taking him so deep I can’t breathe—my hand still wrapped around the girthy base. Again, his body jerks as I pull back, keeping my lips tight until I pop off the top, flicking another glance up into his eyes.
My pulse scatters at the way he’s looking at me. Like a male who’s been living on air, on the verge of starvation, and is now seated before a feast for kings and queens.
I smile. Take him into my mouth again. Slide up and down until he’s taut and shuddering, hissing sharp breaths that fill me with liquid satisfaction, his hips rising to meet me. Until he’s so thick and firm I’m certain he’s about to—
He fists my hair and gently tugs me back until he’s free from my mouth, my neck stretched as he watches me with cutthroat intensity.
Something in his stare has changed, braced with an assertion I don’t understand.
I frown, and it takes me a moment to register the thick tension in the room. That his energy has gone from warm and playful to hard and serious.
Before I have time to untangle that thought, he loosens his hand and flips me onto my back—now kneeling between my spread legs, lording over me like a savage silhouette.
The air stiffens.
“Why did you stop m—”
Another flash of lightning, and he grips my thighs, widening me so much there’s no place for me to hide. “I’ve made a decision,” he growls, spreading his hand across my lower belly, the pad of his thumb circling my swollen clit in slow, ruinous circles.
My hips buck, and I thread my fingers through my hair, strums of pleasure thrumming through me as he plays me like an instrument. “Good for … y-you.”
The fact that he can think at all right now is beyond me.
Seriously—good for him.
He sinks his fingers into me, curling them, rubbing at some deep, tender patch of nerves that strikes me with a bolt of knee-shaking rapture.
I wail from the startling sensation.
Fuck.
What was that?
He strokes that sensitive spot again, again, again—winding me so tight I can hardly breathe. “You’re not erasing me,” he rumbles, thumbing my clit faster.
Faster.
“Not this again,” I moan, but the words don’t hold the punch I intend, his fingers working me so expertly my mind has withered into compost. The sort where bad decisions go to sprout.