Max #2
I leaned in to kiss him, hands going to his clothes, clumsy and frantic, trying to get them off him all at once. His hands helped me finish. When I broke away gasping, I put my mouth close to his ear, and he shivered as my breath warmed his skin.
“F—” The word stuck. “Take me.”
I’d read it in that book—the one Drakken caught me with, two chapters before he ruined the whole thing—where the heroine looked the male lead dead in the eye and said fuck me like a command, like it was hers by right.
I’d wanted to say it exactly like that. But this was Aelindor, and this was me, and that version wouldn’t come.
Lust flared hot in his eyes anyway. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “But I intend to take my time with you.”
I shivered, and not only from his purr. There was nothing between us now but naked heat and cold silver light from the window. My gaze moved over him, and he let me look.
He was built like a god from the old legends. All hard muscle earned by centuries of sword work, faint scars silvering his smooth skin. His hair caught the moonlight and pooled past his shoulders like spun metal. My gaze dipped lower—and there it was.
I couldn’t look away from the size of him, the thick, heavy length of him jutting toward me, and something in me clenched—half want, half how is that going to fit—and only made me wetter.
My mouth went dry. Every nerve in my body lit at the sight of him, my core throbbing with the need to be filled.
Still, he didn’t take me to the bed.
He started at my throat, his lips cool against my pulse, and his mouth curved against my skin when my breath caught.
His palms moved over me like a man taking inventory of something he’d waited too long to touch.
The plane of my stomach. The curve of my waist. When his hands closed over my breasts, he looked at them the way he looked at rare things: with full attention, as if nothing else in the world existed.
Then he lowered his head and took one into his mouth, and I stopped being able to think at all.
His tongue circled my nipple until it ached, and when his teeth grazed the peak, I made an unholy sound.
He did it again, harder. My fingers twisted in his silver hair and held him there.
His hand slid down my stomach and between my thighs, where I was already wet for him—embarrassingly, desperately wet—and the sound he made when he found it, low and raw and hungry, hit me somewhere behind the sternum.
He stroked me, coaxing—gasp by gasp—until I was gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, my hips chasing his hand for more.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
His eyes had gone dark with searing lust, and watching me come apart was doing something to him—I could see it, feel it where he pressed hard and heavy against my hip.
He worked his way down my body, mouth dragging heat across every inch of skin, until he knelt before me in the moonlight like something out of a fever dream—and put his mouth on my pussy.
I was done holding back sound.
He was thorough. Ruthlessly attentive in a way that made Nikolai’s considerable skill feel like a preface to a book I hadn’t known existed. He learned exactly what undid me and stayed there, tongue working me until my knees threatened to give.
I trembled, fingers twisted hard in his silver hair, hips rolling against his mouth without my permission, chasing the pleasure he parceled out one stroke at a time.
“Please,” I managed.
He pulled back just enough to look up at me, his mouth slick with my arousal, his eyes molten. “Please what, love?”
“I don’t know. I can’t stand straight.”
A low chuckle against my inner thigh. “You don’t need to stand straight. Lean on me.”
He put his mouth back on me, his tongue finding my clit, circling it, learning the exact pressure that made my thighs shake, the exact rhythm that had me grinding against his face without shame.
Then he sealed his lips around it and sucked, and I became nothing but that single point of sensation.
He worked me, tongue flicking fast, then slow, then fast again, until my fingernails sank into his shoulder.
He didn’t stop, didn’t rush, didn’t give me an inch.
Then fangs grazed the peak of my clit.
Oh shit. I hadn’t known he had fangs. Not like Nikolai’s, but fangs all the same.
Pleasure detonated.
It crashed through me like a wave with no floor under it, stealing every last thing I had.
I collapsed against him, and he caught me, his arm banding around my hips, holding me through it while his tongue licked into my folds and drank what he’d pulled out of me, thorough and obscenely satisfied, as if this was exactly what he’d wanted all along.
I was a gasping, shaking wreck.
He rose, and his cock pressed thick and granite-hard against my stomach. My greedy pussy clenched with need all over again, already desperate for more, which was frankly embarrassing, given what he’d just done to me.
“Bed, please,” I managed.
“You’ll have the bed.” His hands closed on my hips, moonlight falling across us both.
“But not yet. I want to fuck you right here first. I want to see your face with every thrust.” His eyes burned into mine.
“I want your vulnerability, Max. I want to watch you fall apart on my cock. And I won’t take it easy on you—I’ve waited centuries for this. ”
He hooked my thigh up over his hip, baring me to him, and looked at my pussy like a man surveying something he fully intended to ruin. Hunger twisted his features, his breath turning ragged. The Fae prince, unshakeable, always in control, was coming undone for me.
He rubbed the head of his cock over my pussy first, back and forth, getting himself slick with me. The tease was so good it was almost cruel. I tried to pull him in. He resisted, holding himself right there at my entrance.
“Ask me,” he demanded.
“Please,” I breathed.
“Say my name.”
“Aelindor. Please.”
Watching my face with those burning blue eyes, he pushed in slowly.
The moan that tore from my throat was nothing I recognized, low and broken and loud enough that I was grateful for the ward.
Yet nothing had prepared me for this. The stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming fact of his massive cock inside me, filling me inch by slow inch until I didn’t believe I could take any more of him, only to discover that I could.
The sensation rolled through me so hard my whole body shuddered with it, pleasure and the bright edge of pain twisted together so tightly I couldn’t tell one from the other.
I whimpered, and he went still, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath cool against my lips.
“Breathe, love,” he murmured. “I have you. I won’t be rough with you. Not the first time.”
I breathed. Made myself loosen, muscle by muscle, surrendering to the stretch, and the sting began to soften into something deeper and hotter. My inner walls molded around him, adjusting to his size. He waited until tension bled out of me, then thrust the rest of the way home.
The sound I made then was obscene, and he hissed, his control visibly fraying at the edges. He dropped his forehead to my shoulder and held there for a moment, buried to the hilt inside me, shaking with the effort of not moving.
“You feel—” The words died. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, like I was the only solid thing in the world and he was drowning.
He fought to go slow, and I could see exactly what it cost him, locked jaw, measured breaths, every muscle in his body pulled tight.
His strokes were long and deep and ruthlessly controlled, each one pulling the air out of me, each one finding that place inside that lit up bright and desperate and made my toes curl.
He catalogued every reaction—every flinch, every bitten-off moan, every involuntary roll of my hips—and used them to adjust his angle until he found exactly what made my nails rake down his back and my hips slam up to meet him.
He was learning about me. Systematically. Mercilessly. Intending to know my body better than I did before he was done with it.
That was the most intimate part. Not the pleasure, though the pleasure was filthy and extraordinary. Being mapped like that. Being wanted and taken care of, rather than just taken.
He thrust again and again, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder and more shameless, my blood singing, my whole body burning for more than he was giving me and furious that he still wouldn’t give it.
“Aelindor.” His name came out wrecked, scraped raw. “More. Harder! I won’t break.”
A growl rolled up out of his chest. His control snapped. All at once, no warning.
Slow turned hard. Gentle turned rough and relentless.
He drove into me like he was done being careful, done holding back. I met him thrust for thrust, hips snapping up, taking everything he gave and demanding more. Both of us were past thought, past patience, past anything but the single filthy, urgent need to get there.
The moonlit room narrowed to nothing—the slick heat of us, the obscene wet sound of skin on skin, his breath harsh against my throat and mine broken against his shoulder, his name falling apart in my mouth every time he buried himself to the hilt and ground there, deep and brutal, like he wanted to leave a mark I’d feel for days.
“Don’t stop,” I heard myself say. “Don’t stop, don’t—”
Then the orgasm hit me like a wall.