Enzo
Her eyes heated as she watched me strip the pants down my legs, her lips parted in a little “O” of appreciation. The bond went bright with her need, but I didn’t have the patience to enjoy it.
"Saints," she muttered, her gaze pinned to my throbbing cock.
"Up."
I caught her under the arms and dragged her off the table and against me. Her legs came around my waist on instinct. The robe was somewhere on the floor. The heat of her against my cock—wet, ready, the bond carrying her readiness to me as my own—almost took me apart.
Turning us, I pinned her against the wall beside the hearth, the same wall I’d pinned her wrists against minutes ago. The same place this all started.
She bit my shoulder. Hard.
"Enzo, if you don’t—"
One savage thrust buried me so deep her breath broke against my throat.
Her cunt clenched around me so tight the bond went white.
The sound that came out of her would have brought guards if the silencing rune hadn’t been lit.
Her teeth in my shoulder broke skin. The bite ran down my spine as I bottomed out and held.
"Fuck," she breathed against my throat.
She was tight and slick and the bond was doubling everything—my cock buried in her, her body stretched around me, her pleasure at being filled landing in me as my own, my pleasure at filling her landing in her as hers.
The feedback was so total that for one suspended second neither of us was a separate body.
Then I started to move.
There was nothing slow about it. Nothing patient.
This was the thing I had been holding back since her sweet body found mine in that bath, and every careful inch of distance I had forced between us burned away.
I drove into her with her shoulders against the stone and my hand fisted in her hair and her legs locked around my waist, and the bond carried every brutal stroke into both of us at the same instant.
Each one was wetter than the last, the heat of her gripping me tighter every time I pulled back, and the sound of our bodies meeting was filthy in a way the silencing rune was earning its keep for.
She clawed at my back. She bit my throat. She gasped my name and a string of dialect curses that made me want to fuck her harder. I bent and bit her shoulder, and her blisteringly hot cunt clenched around me so hard I almost finished there.
"Enzo—"
"Hold on to me."
Shoving off the wall, I carried her three steps to the table and put her down hard enough to send the last dishes crashing to the floor.
I pulled out, turned her beneath me, and bent her over the ruined table before she could catch her breath.
Her hands hit the wood. Her back arched.
Her ass lifted into me like her body already knew what came next, and the sight of her waiting there—slick, shaking, furious—nearly ended me.
I caught her hip with one hand and gathered her hair in the other, fisting it at the nape of her neck and drawing it aside.
"I swear to the gods, if you don’t put yourself back inside me—"
I drove into her. The angle made her cry out, and the sound I made against the back of her neck was barely a word.
"There," I growled. "That."
"Fuck—"
I pressed her down with a hand at the small of her back, her hips caught between the table and my body. She couldn’t move. I had her exactly where I wanted her.
“Please.”
Only then did I fuck her. Not gently. Not carefully. Exactly the way she’d asked me to. Every stroke went to the hilt. Every one pulled a sound out of her she would never have allowed in any other circumstance.
My hand on her hip would leave marks tomorrow, lasting on her skin for days.
And I fucking loved it.
The angle from behind put me deeper than I had been against the wall, and the slap of my hips against her ass was a sound I was going to remember for the rest of my unnaturally long life.
She clawed at the table as her cunt fluttered around me. The bond told me she was climbing fast, faster than the first time, the bond compounding into something her body wasn’t built to resist.
I bent over her, wrapping one hand around the front of her throat, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my palm. Her back arched into me. The new angle drove me deeper, and the sound she made against the table was somewhere between a beg and a benediction.
I lowered my mouth to her ear. “Mine.”
The word came out rough. Possessive. Barely civilized.
Her body clenched around me.
“Yes,” she breathed.
Not enough. I tightened my hand on her hip and drove into her again, hard enough to make the table scrape beneath us.
“Say it.”
Her fingers clawed at the wood. Her breath broke. For one heartbeat, I felt the fight in her—the last fierce instinct to keep one piece of herself behind her teeth.
Then she gave it to me anyway.
“Yours,” she rasped.
The word nearly ended me. I bent lower, my chest against her back, my mouth at her shoulder, my cock buried so deep in her that every shudder of her body dragged through mine.
“Again.”
She turned her face against the table, eyes half-open, gold burning at the edges. “I’m yours, Enzo.” Her voice cracked around my name. “Gods, I’m yours.”
My fangs sank into her shoulder, and her body seized around my cock.
The bond tore her pleasure through me until my vision went gray at the edges.
I almost followed her over the edge. Almost let the feral thing in me finish there, buried in her, marked by her, with her blood hot on my tongue and her body clenching around mine.
But I wasn’t done with her yet.
Not even close.
Roughly, I pulled out of her, and she made a sound that was almost a sob. "Enzo, what are you—"
I flipped her over onto her back, lifting her hips off the table as I yanked her toward me until her ass was at the edge and her legs were around my waist again.
"Look at me."
She opened her eyes. Glassy. Furious. The gold burning bright at the edges.
And I drove back into her.
She arched off the table with a curse as I caught one of her thighs, lifting it higher.
The angle changed, and she made a sound that sizzled down my spine.
The bond was carrying so much into both of us that I was losing my own coherence, and the doubling of her pleasure at this angle landing back into me as my own was unmaking what was left of my restraint.
I bent over her, my mouth at her throat.
"Please—"
I bit—fangs sliding clean into the curve where her throat met her shoulder, exactly where I had bitten her a week ago, exactly where I had set her aside. When her blood landed on my tongue, the bond went incandescent.
I drove into her at the same moment.
She broke apart around me. Her hands fisted in my hair.
Her body bowed off the table. Her cunt clamped down on my cock so hard my vision tunneled down to just her.
I felt every flutter of her release through my length, the wet pulsing grip of her milking me, and the bond doubled it back—her pleasure landing in me as my own at the same instant my pleasure landed in her, the feedback closing between us with a force I had no language for.
The build came up from the base of my spine.
Slow at first. Then it tore through me. My balls drew up tight against my body.
My cock thickened inside her. The heat of her closing around me with her climax still pulsing pulled mine out of me before I had decided to let go, and I drove into her harder, deeper, the rhythm gone, every controlled thing about me erased in the brutal animal need to be as deep as I could be when I came.
Her blood was hot in my mouth. My fangs were buried in her throat. My cock was buried in her cunt. The bond was wide enough that I couldn’t tell whose pleasure was whose.
I came with the snarl locked behind my teeth against her skin.
The first pulse hit hard enough that my hand on her hip went white.
I felt myself pump into her—once, twice, again, the heat of my release filling her, the wet of it joining the slick of her around my cock—and the bond carried every pulse back into me as her pleasure at being filled carried back into me as my own, and the doubling went on and on and on.
I lost time.
When I came back to myself, I was braced over her, my breathing wrecked, my cock still buried in her and pulsing, her body still fluttering around me in slow aftershocks. My hand was locked on her hip. My other was tangled in her hair.
My fangs were still in her throat.
I held there through the last shudder. Through the final broken little sound she made against my skin. Through the moment her body went loose beneath mine, spent and trembling and finally, finally still. Only then did I lift my mouth from her throat.
The punctures sealed almost at once.
I should have moved. I didn’t. For a long moment, all I could do was look at her.
Nadia Voss lay beneath me on the ruined table like every dark prayer I had never dared make had been answered in flesh and fury and breath.
Her hair was tangled across the wood, black and damp and wild around her flushed face.
Her lips were swollen from my kiss. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, and the sharp lines she wore like armor had softened into something almost unbearable.
Sweat gleamed along her throat, her breasts, the hollow beneath her ribs.
My marks were everywhere. Fading bites. The prints of my fingers on her hip.
Thin red lines where I had held too hard and she’d wanted me to.
My release was slick on her thighs. My house colors were crushed beneath her. She looked debauched.
Claimed.
Alive.
So beautiful it felt less like want and more like being struck by lightning.
The satisfaction that moved through me was dark and primal, yes, but beneath it was something quieter. Deeper. A terrible, reverent ache that settled behind my ribs and refused to move.
This woman. This vicious, impossible woman.
Mine because she’d chosen it. Mine because she’d said the words. Mine because she’d trusted me with the parts of herself she would have carved out of anyone else’s hands.