Chapter Thirteen #2
“Sorcha,” he murmured in that fond, stern voice she was beginning to love. It made her want to squirm harder. Made her feel achy and wet and desperate. “I need you to answer me. Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” When he rewarded her with a rock of his hips, his hardness pressing into her bud, unexpected and electrifying, she gasped. She could not help herself.
“What was that? I can’t quite hear you when you pout.” The scratch of his beard along her jaw nearly undid her.
She narrowed her eyes at him even as pleasure and arousal kindled in her core. She tried to kiss him, to grind against his cock, to make him as wild as she felt.
He pinned her tighter to the wall and merely waited with that infamous patience of his.
She couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t touching her.
It was torture.
What made it marginally more bearable was the fact that he was as affected as she was. His cheekbones were ruddy, his breath ragged and rumbling in his chest. His cock jutted, trapped between their bodies. “You’re going to pay for this,” she promised. Later.
“I look forward to it.”
She tried once more. “You have too many rules.”
“I already marked you without asking, however well intentioned my motives might have been,” he said roughly, tenderly.
“Then you were cursed, dragged into Lycan affairs. Fell right into a betrothal. All without making the choice. And I know how that feels.” His voice dropped, went deeper. “So now you choose.”
She had not considered that he could arouse her with simple words alone. Her nipples tightened. Her quim pulsed with need. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His smile was crooked and charming and bright. “Thank God for that.”
And then he was kissing her again, claiming her mouth, her throat, the sensitive spot behind her ear that only he alone had ever excavated.
Every part of her body responded. He lowered his head, baring her breasts fully to close his lips over a nipple with one long, hot suck of his mouth.
She made a sound she had never made before, heat shooting into her core.
“That’s it,” Aidan murmured, swirling his tongue over her nipple before sucking again.
And again. Each pull made her gasp, made her back arch, her fingers clench in the thick muscles of his arms. He hummed in approval, sliding his hand under the hem of her nightdress, bunched at her knees.
He dragged his palm up her thigh, fingers brushing teasingly over her hip, the juncture of her leg, and, finally, the softest brush over her quim. She whimpered, trying to get closer.
His laugh, as he moved his mouth to her other breast, was diabolical. She nearly fell into her release right then and there.
“Ah, not yet,” he murmured. Another lick, another hot pull. “I want to feel you come on my fingers, Sorcha. And you’ll come hard.”
She whimpered. She wanted to touch him everywhere, use her tongue and her teeth on all that sun-warmed, scarred skin.
She wanted to lick his tattoo but was still trapped against the wall.
He was intent on her pleasure as if it were his own.
He finally, finally glided between her folds, soft and slick for him, desperate for his touch.
He slid one finger in slowly, deeply, then another until she stretched around him.
He circled her bud with his thumb, learning the pressure that made her buck, using it mercilessly against her, his mouth still pulling at her breast.
The rhythm created a kind of orchestra inside her body, a call-and-response that flooded her with warmth and a need that swirled and spiked higher and higher, waves of sensation and his rough-tender voice demanding, praising her. “Come for me,” he urged. “Let go. Just let go.”
She was helpless against the tide of it, the thrust of his fingers, the rubbing of her bud, the heat of his mouth, and, finally, the building tension that left her shivering and whimpering as it moved through her, claiming her. She came with a near-soundless gasp, riding his hand.
Aidan eased away from her breast with a soft kiss, slanting another across her mouth. “Beautiful.”
He lowered her dress and eased her back down to the floor.
She nuzzled against his warm chest, his hair tickling her nose.
He was hard against her hip, but when she reached for him, a tap at the window made them pause.
Aidan tensed, and if he had been in wolf form, his hackles would have risen.
He turned, keeping his body between her and the intrusion.
A snowy owl perched on the sill outside, eyes bright and liquid.
Aidan’s stance relaxed. “One of yours, I presume?”
Sorcha sighed. “Yes.”
“Trouble?”
“No, curiosity.” Sorcha marched forward, sent the owl a calming image of a clear, starry sky—nothing to worry about.
And then she twitched the curtain closed.
“They like to know where I am.” She turned back to him.
“Especially after today. But right now I am here with you.” Just as soon as her legs stopped feeling so deliciously wobbly.
“You need to rest.”
“I’m fine.” Better than fine. She felt soft and warm, like melted beeswax. And she wanted to feel the rest of him, to taste the salty sweetness of him. Wanted to hear his breath turn ragged in her ear. Needed to.
“Curses can take some time to truly fade. Especially a wolf curse on a human witch.” He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. She nearly purred like one of Aesop’s kittens. “Don’t push yourself.”
“I’m not—” Her argument might have sounded more believable if she had not also been struggling against a yawn that threatened to split her face.
“Let’s get you back to bed for a rest.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want…” She paused. “You don’t want to continue this?”
“Sorcha,” he said quietly, fingers cradling her throat, stilling her suddenly nervous flutters. His tone was hard, his jaw hard, his body hard. But his touch was soft. “Hear me, songbird. When I take you, and you take me, I am going to need you to be very, very well rested. Understand?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”