CHAPTER 22 #2
Finally, he lifted his head, his breath ragged, and a low, guttural growl vibrated in his throat.
The cool air brushed against the nipple he’d just released, making it instantly harden and ache for his return.
He didn’t disappoint; his mouth moved to the other breast, claiming it with the same possessive suction, demanding her full surrender as his hand reversed its role, now kneading the breast he’d just left, starting the exquisite, agonizing tension all over again.
He shifted his weight, his mouth tearing away from her breast. He focused on the dress; the fabric was the only thing between her and his hands.
With a purposeful movement, his hands grasped the velvet at her waist and pulled the material down, gliding down her thighs, past her feet.
His rough palms brushed against the delicate, now highly sensitized skin as the fabric pooled on the ground.
The feel of his hands following the path of the retreating dress was a decadent caress.
His dark eyes devoured the exposed landscape of her body—the curve of her hips and the vulnerability of her core. He settled his hands on her thighs, pushing them further apart, and then his mouth followed the trail his hands had made.
His lips trailed a line of fire down her stomach, his tongue flicking at the slight indentation of her navel. Lyra gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair as he continued his descent, his breath—hot, ragged—fluttering across her most sensitive skin just before he reached his destination.
With a deep, guttural sound of triumph, his mouth settled, his tongue a slow, deliberate stroke against the center of her pulsing core. The intensity was blinding, immediate, and utterly consuming, causing her hips to buck in response.
Lyra’s control shattered. A raw, needy moan escaped her lips, and her legs shot up, instinctively clamping around his head, pressing his mouth tighter against her.
He didn’t break rhythm; his tongue became ruthless, bathing her clitoris in slow, deep spirals while one rough, strong finger slid into her slick warmth, followed quickly by a second.
The combined assault of the oral pleasure and the deep, rhythmic thrust of his fingers sent a shockwave of sensation through her, a ferocious, focused pleasure that stole the air from her lungs.
She was a bowstring pulled taut, vibrating on the very edge of oblivion.
He pried her thighs away from his ears and gently pressed her back against the desk, his head pulling away from her core. He stood, and her eyes, still glazed with the lingering storm, devoured him.
Alaios was a study in deliberate motion as he shed his clothes.
With a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, he untied the dark silk tie and tossed it aside.
His black tuxedo jacket followed, peeling away to reveal the powerful breadth of his shoulders beneath the crisp black shirt.
His fingers went to the buttons of the shirt, the motion agonizingly slow, each button released like the breaking of a vow.
When the shirt fell open, Lyra gasped, not in fear, but in profound awe.
He was sculpted, yes, but not by gentleness.
Every muscle—the defined chest, the flat planes of his stomach, the hard, corded lines of his arms—spoke of ceaseless training and brutal discipline.
Strength was etched into his very being.
The scars that crisscrossed his torso and arms, some jagged and white, others thin and dark, were testaments to battles long past, a map of the Strife he was sworn to command.
He looked as if he had been sculpted not by the gods’ soft hands, but by the hands of Aristos Stoneheart, the master carver of the old empire, whose figures were always sculptures from the raw, unyielding energy of war itself.
He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his trousers, and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them with an economy of motion that left him standing before her, a dark, potent vision of masculinity.
He didn’t give her time to fully process the breathtaking sight.
He was back, moving with the speed of a storm, closing the distance.
His hands clamped onto her thighs, rough and warm, and he pulled them apart, widening her stance on the desk.
This time, his focus was absolute, his dark eyes blazing with a singular, possessive intent that promised both pleasure and consequence.
His hands slid from the soft skin of her knees, traveling upward with the whisper of a touch along the outer curve of her thighs.
The movement was a slow, agonizing caress; his touch so light it felt like a ghost of sensation against her skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.
All the while, Lyra’s eyes remained locked with his, dark and unwavering, utterly unable to look away from the fierce hunger blazing in his gaze.
His hands finally settled, his fingers clamping onto her hips, adjusting her position with a swift, powerful surety that pulled her core directly into the line of his intent.
He buried himself in her in one powerful, consuming stroke.
Lyra gasped, the sound stolen from her lungs as she felt the entire, undeniable length of his shaft penetrate her, filling her completely, a potent fusion of fire consuming her.
He started to move inside her, a deep, primal rhythm that was both slow and powerful, stretching her around his entire circumference.
Lyra gasped, the air catching in her throat, and she instinctively grabbed the hair at the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to hers.
Their lips crashed together, and his kiss was all-consuming, a deep, passionate claim that felt like he was trying to ravage her whole being.
Simultaneously, the pressure inside her began to coil again, rapidly building toward explosive levels as he continued his pace.
His hand slid from her hip and moved between their bodies, his thumb finding her clitoris, stroking slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive peak.
The combined friction and the deep penetration pulled a raw moan from her throat, and her fingers dug into the corded muscle of his back, leaving red crescents in the wake of her desperate pleasure.
His thrusts became deeper and faster, the motion turning into a fierce, demanding drive. Her heart raced, matching the tempo of his thrusts, the frantic beat echoing the rising storm within her. She could hear his ragged, strained breath above the din, a low moan of pure exertion.
Then, the final, exquisite pressure hit.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes locked on hers, just as the blinding, white-hot release seized her.
She cried out; the sound swallowed by his mouth.
He drove into her one last, deep time, his body shaking with his own climax, and she heard him say her name, a raw, guttural moan that was the last thing she registered before the world dissolved into pure sensation.
He held her tightly against his chest, his own breathing heavy and ragged, waiting for the tremors to subside. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were soft, unguarded, and deeply satisfied.