Chapter 50
Lark
Don’t accidentally turn decorating the mantel into a project-management exercise.
—From Lark’s Christmas to-do list
How he destroys me. How his words cut me to the core and resonate with those deeper, darker, needy instincts inside of me. How he makes me feel wanted. And lusted after. And protected. And loved.
He loves me.
This strong, handsome, cold dominant, who vowed to never fall for anyone, just admitted that he loves me. My heart speeds up. My pulse hums. Every nerve ending in my body seems to fire at the same time. I shiver.
“You love me,” I repeat the words aloud to make sure I heard them correctly.
His eyes narrow. The blue crackles with an iciness that burns. He’s dropped enough of that mask so I can see the surging emotions under the surface.
“I love you. I want you. I need you. I can’t live without you. You’re mine, Lark.”
The skin stretches across his cheekbones, lending a kind of depth to his expression I’ve never seen before.
"You’re mine to claim, mine to protect, mine to please. And now, the world will know it, too."
His words are both territorial and proprietary, and yet, also speak of something more delicate. Something affectionate. And fragile. They show his vulnerability in a way I’ve never felt before.
By wearing his ring, I was his wife. But by wearing this chain, I feel closer to him.
It’s a sign of the emotions that he’s kept in check all his life… The emotions he’s unleashed for me.
It makes me feel like I'm his. In every way. My heart stutters. My pulse rate spikes. Every cell in my body seems to fill with a burst of elation.
I’m his.
He’s mine.
Truly mine.
Tenderness and awe squeeze my chest. He draws his lower lip inward, and I know that he’s as moved as I am by this moment.
That he feels this connection between us. That this is more intimate than when he placed the ring on my finger. That's what tradition dictated. I touch the chain again. This is for us. This is our secret.
One I wear with pride. “I love you so much.”
His features light up. His throat moves as he swallows. “Those are the most beautiful words I have ever heard.”
My heart stutters. My pulse thrums. This feeling of being so in sync with him is intense. It’s perfect. It’s everything.
"Kiss me.” I lift my chin. “Please.”
His eyes flare.
"You don’t get to direct what I do. But this once, because you begged for it so prettily…" He grips my jaw to hold my face and presses his thumb into my lower lip, so I open my mouth.
When he feels I’m positioned for maximum pleasure, he swoops down and closes his lips over mine.
Hard and soft. The firm press of his mouth against mine, the velvety softness of his tongue, the hard clasp of his fingers on my chin, the gentle rub of his thumb over my cheek, the hardness of his chest molding mine, the firm hold of his other hand on the nape of my neck.
I’m aware of every single place where he’s touching me, though my focus is completely on where our mouths and lips and tongue meet.
He must reach some internal breaking point, for he draws me up to my tiptoes, plasters me to his torso so we’re smashed together from chest to groin, to thigh. Then, he releases his hold on my jaw to wrap his thick arm around my waist.
He bends me over, so my back is curved, and I’m suspended over his forearm. I’m forced to part my legs for balance. He instantly moves his hips between my thighs. That thick rod at his crotch throbs through the clothes we’re wearing, branding my lower belly.
The sensations zip up to my collar and seem to heat the metal.
It feels like he’s marking me all over again.
Then he sucks on my tongue, and my head spins.
All other sensations coalesce into this one touchpoint, spiraling into a vortex that sucks me in.
Cinches all my emotions into the feeling of his mouth on mine, his lips crushing mine, the way he seems to swallow my taste, swallow me whole.
I’m but a speck in this universe, and he’s the force that powers it.
He groans into my mouth; a shudder rolls over him. Then he slowly gentles the kiss. Millimeter by millimeter, he releases my lips. Until he’s barely sharing my breath. Then he straightens me gently, pressing his forehead to mine in that affectionate gesture I love.
His massive chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile. He eases his hold on me, so he’s holding me in the circle of his arms but without pressing me to his chest. He begins to sway, and me with him. It’s gentle. Soft. Heartfelt.
Like we’re dancing to our own internal music. I sigh. And melt into him further.
I place my cheek against the crisp material of his shirt, drawing in lungfuls of Brody.
He notches his knuckles under my chin.
I raise my eyes to his. The lust I see in his makes my breath catch. “The party. Won’t we be late?”