mouth becomes insistent, never stopping. His body surges tighter, never relenting. Over and over he works his cock against my core, a groan consuming his chest as a sigh possesses mine.
“Ella.” He husks it against my lips. “Fuck. My beautiful Ella.”
“No,” I protest, voice sliding on sandpaper. “You are the beautiful one.” And I am overwhelmed by it…
Hands tangled in his thick, silky hair…
Skin on fire from his hard, straining muscles…
Eyes pierced by tears, from the crystalline truth in his. The purity of his freedom.
Surely he sees it now…recognizes what he has accomplished. The empire he has shaped, the spires he has built, the fortune he has amassed…none took half the courage of what he did tonight, in facing the ghost of Lily once more. In grieving everything she took right out that window with her.
He leans in. Kisses the drops from my cheeks. Takes their salt back to my lips, only kneading our mouths at first, but quickly demanding more. Then more. Parting me. Invading me. Filling me. Taking everything from me—
But then giving all of it back. As something new. Something more.
More.
A desire that shakes me. A craving that commands me.
Yes…
A lust that possesses me.
I feel the urgency in him too. In the buttocks beneath my heels, clenching to power the surges of his hips. In the urgency of his hands, cupping me below, spreading me…preparing me. And in the throb of his flesh, so huge that I wonder how he has not ripped through his track pants because of it.
We tear apart, if only to confirm our raging feelings on each other’s face. To validate this connection as reality, not some elysium of fables and fantasies, of dreams we cannot possibly be living. Of need we cannot possibly be feeling.
He is so real. And I am so damn glad.
I show him so—with my surrender. Widen my legs and crash my head back, submitting as openly as possible with my back against the door and my legs around his waist. In return, primitive thunder erupts from his chest—before he lunges his head, biting the side of my neck.
“Faisi vive Créacu.” It is the first time I have ever uttered the filthy Arcadian phrase—but it is also the first time my body has ever known such a fever. The jab of pain from his teeth becomes a javelin, stabbing down, embedding into the fruit of my sex. I fracture into a thousand slices of arousal—hot and wet, fervid and frantic, possessed and obsessed, swept by a force that drives my hands into new explorations over his body. I stab up under his shirt, exploring the striations of his back and spine and shoulders, before dipping again beneath his pants, clutching him by those perfect, muscled spheres…
Dear, sweet Creator.
And he calls me the sorceress? There is magic in his backside. It absorbs my attention to the exclusion of all else, especially as its taut muscles contract then expand beneath my touch…
I need him.
“I need this.”
Only one other trio of words have meant more from his sinfully curved lips. These three make mine smile as much, though not for long. In seconds, I am forming a wide O of new lust, as he twists at the drawstring of my black cotton capris hard enough to tear its mooring wider. Then again and again and again, until the front of the garment is not there anymore—and my naked flesh is instead exposed in the gap.
I gasp heavily.
Cassian snarls, heavier. Someone likes that I obeyed intuition and interpreted his order for “something more comfortable” to mean the exclusion of panties.
As the snarl sharpens to a grunt, he dips his hand in. Fully palms my mons.
“I need this.” The repetition is definitely not like its predecessor. He wields it now as conqueror, not requestor. “I need this, Ella. Here. Now. Like this.”
Liquid, delirious nod. I hope he does not demand something more verbal. I am usually eager for the “conversation,” reveling in what his filthy words do to every inch of my body, but right now, that ravaging wolf’s growl has me soaking the finger he pumps up into my intimate tunnel. The reason is clear. Though the bed is steps away, he wants to continue suspending time: to fuck me against the wall like a warrior of old, being welcomed home by his willing concubine.
Will the concubine in the room please moan in approval?
All too easily, the sound tumbles from me. Cassian responds by ramming his finger in deeper—before joining another to it.