in pressure. When he blew a warm breath on her slick folds, her inner muscles clenched.
“Fuck me,” she ordered. She had to have him inside her.
Rather than plunge into her, he flipped her over onto her stomach and pushed her legs wide, mounting her from behind. He was so damn big and seemed even larger in this position. Her inner muscles rippled around him, stretching to admit him. The heat of his shaft as he filled her, his unbridled need, made her come alive.
She pushed up on her hands and knees and shoved back. Throwing her head back, she moaned as the new position drove him even deeper. They were intimately joined, but it still wasn’t enough.
Morrigan hungered for more than sexual release, yearned for closeness, true intimacy, trust, and even love. She wanted that with Maccus. It was too soon to love. Maybe it was the loneliness taking over. All she knew was she craved it.
She’d wear the bruises from his hands on her hips but didn’t care. His desperation, his desire for her, was a balm for her ragged soul. At this moment, someone cared.
His thrusts were short and hard. Every time he withdrew, she sucked in a breath until he drove deep again, stimulating every nerve ending inside her. How had she lived for so long without ever knowing this kind of pleasure existed? It pushed aside all else in its wake, leaving her craving more, reaching for completion once again.
He slid one hand between her legs and brushed his thumb over her clit. The tension released in the sweetest rush, and all her energy deserted her. She collapsed in a sweaty, limp heap onto the mattress.
Maccus dragged her hips back up and pistoned in and out of her. A roar shook the room, and then his warmth filled her.
He fell on top of her, blanketing her entire body, offering at least the illusion that she was protected, cared for.
Closing her eyes, she savored the moment, secreting it in her heart to keep it safe.
Next thing, I’ll be writing hearts with our initials in my diary.
If she had one, which she didn’t.
No matter how much she might wish differently, they hadn’t made love. This was hot and heavy sex, a release of hormones and energy—not a declaration of undying devotion or the start of a relationship.
He rolled onto his back. Her skin cooled, and she shivered. It wasn’t just the lack of heat making her chilly. It was the emotional separation.
She turned her head on the pillow so she could see him. His eyelashes were dark and long, almost feminine. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Maybe because he was so darn masculine. Any sign of softness seemed oddly out of place. There was certainly none to be found in him.
He turned his head and studied her, his black eyes deep and fathomless. “Was I too rough?”
She shook her head. The pillowcase rustled, making a scrunching sound. Lying side by side in bed with the sweat still evaporating from her body, their voices low, was so intimate. “You were perfect.” Shit, she hadn’t meant to say that. “It was perfect,” she amended.
She closed her eyes to block him from her view. It was stupid to feel vulnerable. Nothing had changed between them.
But something had shifted inside her. And that wasn’t good. She couldn’t afford to lose her edge, to get soft.
But could she kill Maccus if the opportunity presented itself? Did she still want to?
Better to burn in Hell for eternity than hurt a good man. And in spite of his past and all he’d been through, he was a good man.
When he stroked the side of her face, she kept her eyes closed, soaking up the caring and warmth. Real or not, it didn’t matter. She needed it. Her existence, always hunting demons, had worn her down, drained her.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She finally opened her eyes. “Nothing.”
The soft light in his eyes vanished until they were black obsidian once again, but there was nothing to be done about it.