Chapter 28 #3
I pull off him with a slow, deliberate drag of my tongue, my lips swollen, my breath uneven. His cock twitches, thick and aching, and the sight of him like this sends a pulse between my legs.
Still on my knees, I reach for a strawberry from the scattered pile on the counter, plucking it by the stem. I bring it to my lips, dragging it slowly across them before taking a bite, the juices bursting onto my tongue, dripping in a thin line down my chin.
I catch it with the tip of my finger, sucking it into my mouth.
With a desperate growl, he hauls me back up into his arms, his mouth crashing against mine, tasting fruit and salt on my tongue. His hands are rough, greedy, roaming over my body as he pushes me back against the table.
“I wanted this to be slow,” he mutters against my mouth, his hands gripping my thighs, lifting me once more. “I wanted to—”
I drag him down to me, stealing the rest of the sentence from his lips.
There’s nothing slow about this.
This is hunger. This is starvation. I am ravenous.
I arch against him, desperate, the heat between us unbearable.
The tension coils tighter, every nerve in my body strung so taut I might break apart again before he even takes me.
My thighs tremble around his hips, my nails digging into his broad shoulders as he strokes his fingers down my inner thigh, teasing, tracing, dragging out the moment until I’m begging for it.
His fingers glide over my slick folds, parting me, finding me already drenched, aching. He groans, a deep, guttural sound, his forehead pressing against mine as his fingers slide through my wetness. “Gods, Gemma…you’re so ready for me.”
“Then stop teasing.”
Alderic growls low in his throat, gripping my hips, lifting me slightly, just enough to position himself at my entrance.
The cool air kisses my fevered skin as he lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my wet heat.
He holds there, lingering, his fingers flexing against my hips, savoring this moment before surrendering completely to the inevitable pull between us.
“Gemma, you do know we were always meant to find each other, don’t you?”
“Were we?” But even as I say the words, I know the truth. “Yes.”
I meet his gaze, and the moment I do, he thrusts forward, sinking deep, stretching me inch by inch.
It’s not just a joining—it’s a claiming, a tethering of something beyond flesh, beyond thought, beyond reason. He fills me completely, a slow, deliberate possession that makes my breath catch, my muscles quiver around him as if recognizing, remembering. As if my body has always known his.
“Gods,” he groans, his head dropping back, his fingers tightening around my hips. “You feel—” His words break off into a shuddering breath as he pulls back, just enough to make me whimper, then pushes forward again, harder this time, setting my nerves ablaze.
My back bows, my hands fisting in his hair, dragging his mouth back to mine as he starts to move, thrusting deep, slow, letting me feel every inch of him, every stretch, every exquisite bit of friction that sends pleasure crackling through my veins.
The table beneath me quakes with each delicious stroke.
He buries his face against my neck, panting, groaning, his lips dragging over my heated skin. His voice trembles as he thrusts deeper, his hands gripping my hips like he’s afraid to let go. “You feel like heaven.” He lifts his head, and his blue eyes burn into me. “Like you were made for me.”
At his words, I tighten around him, moaning as he thrusts deeper, stretching me. My fingers slip from his shoulders to his chest, splaying wide over the firm muscle and burning heat of his skin. His heart pounds beneath my touch, wild and unsteady, and I realize—he’s just as lost in this as I am.
His lips find mine again, but this kiss is different. There’s no desperation, no frantic hunger. Only something slow and deep and devastating. His tongue sweeps against mine, coaxing, teasing, until I’m arching into him, pressing closer, wanting more, more, more.
He drags his hands up my thighs, over the curve of my waist, along the soft swell of my breasts, worshipping every inch of me with his touch.
His hips roll into mine again, slow and deep, his body meeting mine like the sea drawn to shore. Pleasure builds in thick, aching waves, cresting higher, higher, dragging me to the edge without sending me over.
“Please,” I beg, barely able to form the word. “Please—”
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “I feel you.”
He shifts slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust hits something devastatingly perfect. My vision splinters, my breath catches, and my back arches as pleasure twists tight, winding impossibly sharp, impossibly sweet.
He continues to drive into me, each stroke landing right where I need him.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until I can’t hold on anymore.
Until I don’t want to.
I shatter, my muscles rippling around him, my release cresting over me in slow, rolling waves that shake me to my core.
And he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase his own pleasure.
He just moves with me, drawing it out, letting me feel every lingering tremor, every pulse of pleasure still washing through my limbs.
Only when I sag beneath him, utterly wrecked, utterly his, does his rhythm finally falter.
His breath stutters, his muscles tensing as he thrusts once, twice more, then finds his own release with a broken, reverent moan, spilling into me, his body pressing deeper, holding me to him like he’ll never let go.
For a long moment, we don’t move. Our bodies locked together, our chests rising and falling in sync. His forehead drops to mine, his lips brushing over my cheek, my jaw, my mouth.
“You were made for me,” he whispers.
And it isn’t a claim. It’s a prayer.
And God help me, I’m praying too.