Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,141

more. Something that brings an ache to my chest because Saxon . . . there are no walls built around him. I’ve scaled them, or maybe he tore them down, but as his tongue tangles with mine, there’s no denying the possessive roll of his hard cock against my core or the way he breaks from my mouth to utter “fucking beautiful” and “mine” against my temple.

This is Saxon Godwin unrestrained by the chains of Holyrood and prescribed loyalties and forever-present ice. And it’s wonderful.

I strain my neck, arching my back and thrusting my breasts into his body. “Please. Please.”

“Please, what?” The words are a taunt against my mouth, a dare for me to rise to the occasion and demand what I want from him. “Don’t be scared now.”

With my fingers raking through his hair, I yank on the strands. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be, sweetheart. You fucking should be.”

His nimble fingers flirt with the elastic waistband of my joggers. An intentional stroke along the seam. Another well-positioned drag over my clit. With his chest pressed flush with mine, he holds me captive as he works me into a writhing, trembling mess. I want more, and I part my lips to demand just that, but then he’s already moving.

Beneath the cotton of my sweats, beneath the silk of my knickers.

Until I feel the rough pad of his finger coasting along the all-too-sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of my sex. He strokes me in a soft, barely-there caress, but it’s enough. Enough for sensation to flare. Enough for me to bury a cry into his shoulder while he rewards me with a guttural groan that has me turning into liquid beneath his body.

“Oh, God. Saxon.”

He plunges two fingers inside me, then angles his body so that I have a clear view of what he’s doing to me. My pulse skips a beat at the sight: my knees propped up, my hips rising again and again, shameless in my desire, his hand tenting the material of my joggers while he curls those fingers inside me and drags a moan from my lips.

The orgasm tickles at the base of my spine.

I feel it, the heat, the pull for me to let go.

Saxon doesn’t let me fly.

With one last thrust of his fingers, he pulls his hand out from my bottoms and plants it on the grass beside my head. “You’ll come with me,” he growls against my mouth, “and not a second before.”

“Cruel,” I tease on a heavy pant, “so bloody cruel.”

“No, not cruel,” he rumbles, as he sinks back on his heels and reaches for my shirt, arrogantly gathering the fabric in one fist, which he uses to pull me from the ground. My hands clamp down over his hard shoulders, just as he adds, “Starved. For you, for this.”

He whips the shirt over my head, discarding the material a heartbeat later. My bra follows next.

Silence steals over our small corner of the world, until there’s only the gentle trickle of the stream and the birds waking in the trees, and the harsh sound of Saxon’s pained groan when he spies the new, finger-length scar that descends like a line drawn in the sand between my breasts. The stitches will come out soon, but not yet.

I lick my lips. “Looks like you’re not the only one with visible scars now.”

It’s a modest attempt at humor, as ill-timed as the rest of my jokes. But Saxon barely gives me the chance to crack another because his lips descend on mine, urgent yet confident. Palm hovering over my scar, he doesn’t touch me directly. But he waits, lingers, then ducks down to kiss my collarbone.

I breathe out his name.

He places another kiss a millimeter north. And his eyes never leave my face. “I see you, sweetheart. The scars you bear, inside and out. Just like you see mine.”

My mouth trembles as I soak in his frame. “Broken,” I whisper, tracing the raised, hardened flesh beneath his arm, down his left side, “ruined.”

Dragging my knickers down the length of my legs, Saxon shakes his head. “Beautiful. Brave. Fierce.” Stripping off his joggers, he lowers me down to the grass, using my shirt as a blanket, before lining up his cock with my core. Instantly my toes curl, spine arching as his thick crown slips through my wetness. “You pieced me back together, Isla. You saw the broken and misshapen parts of me, and you filled them with warmth. You made me