Chapter 23
Twenty Three
Kaden
The moment her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, a guttural sound of pure need escaping her throat, that is the moment I win.
A bolt of triumphant lust, so potent it nearly blinds me, surges through my veins. This is no longer the timid, terrified girl who flinched at my touch. This is a woman, starved and desperate, finally awakening to her own desires. And I am the one who woke her.
Her body, soft and curvy, molds against mine, a perfect fit.
I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the tremor of her surrender.
My kiss becomes a conquest, my tongue a marauder, claiming every inch of her sweet, wet mouth.
She meets me with equal ferocity, a wild, untamed energy that I have been dying to unleash.
I break the kiss, my lips trailing a fiery path down her jaw, to the soft, tender skin of her throat. I taste her pulse, a frantic, fluttering bird beneath my tongue. She arches her neck, a silent offering, giving me more of her.
“Kaden,” she breathes, my name a broken, desperate prayer on her lips.
That sound is my undoing.
My hands, which had been gripping her waist, begin to move, to explore. I slide one hand up her back, my fingers tracing the delicate knobs of her spine. The other hand moves to the front, my palm flattening against her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin cashmere.
She shivers, a full-body tremor, but she doesn’t pull away. She leans into my touch, a silent invitation.
I need more. I need all of her.
With a low growl, I push her back onto the bed, my body following hers, covering her, pinning her beneath me. Her eyes fly open, a flicker of fear returning, but it’s quickly consumed by a dawning, dark excitement.
“You are so beautiful, Snowflake,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. “So perfectly made.”
I reach for the hem of her sweater, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her stomach. She sucks in a breath, her eyes locking onto mine, a silent question in their depths.
I don’t ask for permission. I pull the sweater up and over her head, tossing it aside.
She lies before me, clad only in the black lace bra I chose for her, her pale, creamy skin a stark contrast to the dark silk sheets.
Her breasts are full, her nipples hard, straining against the delicate fabric. She is a masterpiece. A feast.
“Mine,” I growl, my gaze devouring her.
I lower my head, my lips tracing the line of her collarbone, then moving lower, to the swell of her breast. I kiss the soft skin above the lace, then take the fabric in my teeth, pulling it down, freeing her. Her breast spills into my hand, full and heavy, a perfect fit.
She gasps, her back arching, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I take her nipple into my mouth, my tongue laving the sensitive peak, my teeth gently grazing. She cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
This is what I wanted. This is the symphony I have been waiting to conduct.
My hand moves lower, over the curve of her hip, to the waistband of her cashmere pants. I slide my fingers beneath the fabric, my touch hot against her skin. She is wet. So wet. For me.
I pull the pants down, my movements urgent, desperate. She helps me, her hips lifting, her legs parting. I strip them from her, leaving her exposed, vulnerable, clad only in the tiny scrap of black lace that covers her sex.
I move down her body, my lips leaving a trail of fire on her skin. I kiss her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thigh. She is trembling, her body a live wire of sensation.
I reach her core, the heart of her pleasure. I look up at her, my eyes locking with hers. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a raw, desperate need.
“Please,” she whispers, the word a broken plea.
I smile, a slow, predatory curve. “Please what, cara?”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t. She is lost.
I lower my head, my tongue flicking out to taste her. She cries out, her body convulsing, her hips lifting off the bed. I part her folds, my tongue delving into her, tasting her essence, drinking her in. She is a storm of salt and sweetness, a flavor I will never tire of.
I bring her to the edge, again and again, my tongue a relentless instrument of pleasure. She is sobbing now, her hands tangled in the sheets, her body a taut bow of sensation.
“Let go, Snowflake,” I command, my voice a low growl against her slick folds. “Come for me.”
And she does.
With a final, desperate cry, her body shatters. Her release is a violent, beautiful thing, a testament to her surrender. I hold her hips, feeling the aftershocks of her pleasure, a fierce, possessive satisfaction surging through me.
I move up her body, my lips finding hers again, kissing her deeply, tasting her release on my tongue. I pull back, looking down at her, at the beautiful, broken, sated woman beneath me.
“You are mine, Wynter,” I say, my voice a low, absolute decree. “Every part of you. Every pleasure. Every breath. All of it. Mine.”
She stares up at me, her eyes wide, dazed, her body still trembling. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.
I have claimed her. And she knows it.