Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
HANNAH
I wake to Abaddon’s heat at my side. Being tied down like a roast last night made sleeping face-up awkward, but he wore me out so hard I conked out seconds after the last wave hit and slept like a log. Now I’m awake and shockingly—humiliatingly—feel amazing. Except I’m starving. And I have to pee.
“You have to let me up at some point, you do realize that, right?” I say when he stirs, the whole bed creaking with him.
“Fine,” he growls and then does nothing. Not helpful.
“I’m serious. I have to pee.” Still nothing. He’s a monster and a brick of stubbornness.
“And I’m hungry. You knocked me up, and pregnant women need to eat!” I blurt, and yes, of course, that gets him moving.
He shifts, finally, and begins untying my ankles.
Relief should be the main emotion here, but the way his fingers linger, massaging the sore skin, makes my pulse stutter.
Then he kisses the place where the rope chafed—tiny, considerate mouth-presses all along my Achilles—and I want to scream at him for being absurdly tender when I’m desperate to pee and also find a sandwich.
He frees the second ankle and climbs up my body like a slow, deliberate threat. Kisses at my knees, at my thighs, his wicked tongue making small heat-trails, and every step he takes toward my center perversely turns the pressure in my bladder into a building heat between my thighs.
Once my ankles are loosened, my legs begin to move as if they know better than I do. They lift and wrap around his lower back beneath those vast wings. My voice cracks into a whisper. “Fuck me,” I say, and for once the words are not a dare but a surrender.
His head lifts and his eyes search mine. I realize with a small, ridiculous jolt that this is what he’s wanted since the rift—for me to ask. For me to beg. I bite my lip and try again, more urgently. “Fuck me, Abaddon. I want you to fuck me.”
His wings explode outwards, shrouding the room in black, and he pounces on my body. There is a moment when the world narrows to the press of him at my swollen, flushed center and the soft rumble like a purr beginning at the back of his throat. “I have been waiting for you,” he breathes.
I nod because there aren’t words big enough for what I feel. He leans down and nips my neck in a way that makes a fire bloom along my spine and makes my pussy wet.
“You will want none but me because I will fuck you so well,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Yes,” I whimper, and he doesn’t give me time for another sentence.
He thrusts in before I can finish, filling me in that ancient, impossibly wide way that somehow maps everywhere I am inside.
My arms are still tied above my head, so I cling with my legs, heels digging into his back, wrapping around him like some needy vine.
“You are mine,” he growls between thrusts. “I will protect you.”
He pulls out and drives in again. “I will worship you,” he promises. “I will keep you safe and fuck you forever.” Each pull, each thrust slams into my slick center and sparks little fireworks up my spine.
“Yes!” I scream, lost, everything else erased as the pleasure blooms so bright I feel drunk.
He pulls out, and I want to cry at the emptiness before he slams back in, grinding his groin to rub my clit in the most cruel, most perfect way.
My legs shake as I clamp him; my body starts to ripple with aftershocks.
“I need you, and you need me,” he growls between thrusts, voice thick as molten lead. He speeds up, and the room tilts. Light spills as his chest begins to glow—that impossible inner brightness—and the air hums with it, making my hair lift as his wingbeats buffet us both.
Tears of pleasure streak my cheeks as ecstasy hits in furious waves. “I need you,” I sob, as the world turns into white heat. “I need you, and you need me.”
He fucks me harder, everything vibrating—his wings, his chest, the skin of my belly. The glow from him explodes, and it’s like he’s being burned open and lit with holy fire all at once.
I feel him release first, a hot, unstoppable flood that pours into me, and that shock of him releasing inside me sends another series of orgasms blasting up my spine.
Oh shit.
I think I’m in love with one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
My head falls back onto the pillow, and I laugh, breathless and broken, as Abaddon buries his face between my breasts. His wings settle like a dark, protective shroud, and for a delicious, dizzy second, we are just heat and breath and the aftershakes of absolute ruin.
He murmurs something against my skin—soft, possessive—and I melt right there, all stubbornness reduced to a sticky, blissed-out puddle.