Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,83
when I press a palm to the heavy erection straining past his pants.
We both groan, his pitched erotically low, and his big hands close over the back of my head. It’s a line drawn in the sand, a battle for who’s really in control—and I stake my claim by rubbing my thumb over the velvet-soft head of his cock. “Does this turn you on?” I breathe, victory singing in my veins at the chance to toss his own words back in his face. “Because I think it does. You’re leaking, Damien.”
His cock twitches against my hand.
“Jesus,” he grunts, “you should see yourself.”
“Paint me a picture.”
“I’m no artist.” His hips push forward when I roll his pants down his thighs and his cock springs free. “I orchestrate death—it’s all I’ve ever done and all I’ll ever do—but with you . . . fuck, grip me harder . . . harder, yes,” he hisses, thrusting against my palm, “like that. Just like that.” The hands on the back of my head flex. “I wish I knew beauty. I wish I could paint it for you because you, Rowena . . . you’re a dream I don’t ever want to wake from.”
Beauty is a man as roughened as he is—the villain, the monster—who breaks for only one woman.
Circling the root of his cock, I grip him hard, the way he likes it, and then . . . And then, with a surge of vulnerability quaking in my limbs, I lean forward on my knees and touch my tongue to the crown.
“Fuck.” At the guttural curse, I lick away the bead of moisture and drag the flat of my tongue down over the hard length of him. His fingers press into my skull, the internal war within him breeching the surface as he pulls me closer. “Open your eyes,” he orders.
I hadn’t even realized that I closed them.
As I lift my gaze, I take him into my mouth and swallow him as deep as I can. A throaty groan escapes him, and I feel my heart lurch. He’s enjoying the hell out of this and I . . . Oh, God, I love it. With him, for him, I love it.
It’s sensual, painfully erotic.
His hips rock gently against my mouth and the noises he makes sound wrenched from his soul. I’m warm from the sun and burning from him, and I can’t stop myself from following the descent of my hand as it sinks to the root. I pepper open-mouthed kisses over his cock and moan when he gruffly utters my name. My palm skims north, feeling a ridged vein that I stop to lap with attention before twisting my hand around the crown.
And then I do it all over again, bringing him deeper into my mouth, nearly preening when his hands begin to tremble. He smooths a palm over my head, breathing, “Oh, fucking hell, Rowena, it feels so good.”
I’ve never . . . Oh, God, I never thought it could be like this.
It’s need and want that has me clutching his arse, my fingers digging into the muscle. It’s a desire to make it last that has me monitoring the pace of his thrusts, so that I pull back when he tries to wrest away control, only to swirl my tongue over the head of his cock when he finally relents and cedes power back to me.
Whatever line we’ve drawn is now blurred by the tread of our feet running in the sand.
He curses my name, and my knees press together in response. I’m going to come. If I don’t finish him off quick, I’m going to come before I’ve even let him orgasm once. I pull back long enough to whisper, “Take what you want.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
With one hand cradling the back of my skull, Damien feeds his cock back into my mouth and begins to pump. A slow retraction, where he rubs the damp crown over my lips, once, twice, before plunging deep. My eyes water and my throat knits closed, and then I hear him growl, “Wrap your hand around me.”
The tips of my fingers touch as I grip his base, and the calloused hand on my neck retreats again to my head. I’m ashamed of how wantonly I whimper with every thrust that he gives me, but not ashamed enough to stop myself from slipping my free hand between my thighs to satisfy the growing ache.