Chapter 13 #2
Conflicting feelings ignite in me. Rage in my belly. An ache, a hunger.
My lashes lower—and I stare at him with unflinching hatred.
His eyes fling up to mine.
Our stares hook.
Thumb brushing over my clit, he pushes in a bit more. Then more. Filling me.
And as much as he tries to fight it back, all his muscles tightening against it, a groan flexes through him.
That does something to me.
The sweet fucking sound of it surges through me, flips my insides, and that flame in my belly suddenly blazes.
I feel the wetness increase. Slipping over him.
Still, he holds my gaze.
He pushes in, deeper, further, pushing against the tension of my walls, more and more, until he’s all the way—
And a soft whine is tugged out of me.
His eyes flash.
One hand still working on my clit, slow and steady strokes, side to side, he glides his other along my neck.
His grip isn’t tight. He just holds my neck loosely, fingers flexing, as he slips out of me—but only halfway before he slams back in.
A grunt chokes out of me, guttural and muffled.
The darkness in his eyes deepens, pupils dilating like spilled ink.
He holds my gaze, hooked through every flex of his hips, every thrust in and out of my wetness, every grunt that’s shoved out of me—and he gains momentum.
Something unravels in him.
A savageness that rumbles his chest with a growl.
His hand abandons my clit, grabs onto my hip, and he brings me down to meet his thrusts.
The muzzle swallows my cry.
Grip flexing on my neck, he yanks me flush against him. The pressure of his thumb pushes into the underside of my chin, forces my head back until our faces are aligned.
Noses touching, his cold harsh breaths brush over my parted lips and the fabric gagging me.
He fucks me.
Gazes locked, his breaths harsh and guttural, he slams into me with a desperate, jutting rhythm.
I watch him.
Stare up at him.
At the rich emerald green of his eyes, clashing with darkness, with shadows lurking in the bathroom, and I get it.
‘It will only hurt if you fight it.’
It takes on a new meaning now as I watch him unravel right before my eyes.
Samick meant more than the physical. He meant my inner battle.
Like his.
And he’s stopped fighting it.
He gave into his lust for a measly human.
And he made the choice for me.
My body does, too.
With each thrust, his fingernails digging into my flesh, his cock striking that pleasure spot, I’m climbing.
Samick drops his head, his brow resting on mine, and pounds into me.
Neither of us cry out, or scream, or shout. Like we both need to keep this private, a dirty secret, away from the two fae downstairs.
Every grunt and moan is tightened. Suppressed. Muffled. Restrained.
Those throaty sounds bounce off the tiled walls. Fill the bathroom.
Until I feel it. I feel him.
The stuttering tension that halts him—his breath cutting off, stilling.
Then he comes undone.
The climax crashes down on him. A groan rips free from him, a warmth spilling inside of me.
The slight meat of my hips sting as his nails cut into my flesh, hard enough to draw beads of blood.
I cringe against the sharp bite of pain.
Samick slams into me one final time, all the way to the hilt, and the warmth expands inside of me. His muscles flex, his body jerks, his cock tensing against my walls.
His forehead presses into mine, harder as he turns rigid against his climax.
And his lashes finally shut.
Like a ribbon tugging through him, the tension softens muscle by muscle, until he’s just curved over me.
For a beat, he stays like this.
His grip relaxes on my hips.
Then that full sensation abandons me.
He sighs something soft before he slips out of me.
I feel the loss.
I didn’t finish. Maybe I was too rigid, too frozen, too sour, but disappointment starts to settle over me—
But in a heartbeat, I’m yanked right off the counter.
Holding me to him, Samick carries me out of the bathroom and through the door opposite.
The torchlight is stolen completely, and in total darkness, Samick throws me off of him.
I gasp with the fright, my stomach flipping.
Then I land with a bounce on a mattress. A bed.
And Samick follows me down.
His hand hits the mattress, dipping right next to my head, and his other finds my slit without so much as a fumble.
But I might as well be blindfolded.
I don’t see a thing. Not more than darkness.
But I feel it.
The pressure of a cold touch dragging wetness and his seed from my opening, up to my clit.
I feel each stroke alighting my body. His breaths softly brushing over my face. His teeth slowly grazing over my cheek.
A guttural sound threads through me.
Samick’s fingers dive into my opening, bringing the pressure of his thumb firmer against my clit—and he finds a rhythm, plays me like an instrument.
My legs stay spread for him.
The gag blocks my whimpers, muffles them as my breaths grow louder, turn into sharp moans.
The small of my back lifts off the mattress.
My heels dig into the crumpled sheets, pushing them down, wrinkling them, and I start to writhe, start to squirm—
And I wonder if he watches.
In darkness, with me blind beneath him, if he watches my fingers curl in the sheets, my face tense, as I hold onto that rope of pleasure unravelling through my body.
An echo of his climax, his moan as he unravelled for me, thrums in my mind. The way his face tightened, his brow furrowed, his lips parted around that guttural sound—
It finishes me.
My back arches against the darkness, my toes point into the mattress, and I still. Frozen for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, then it strikes me.
I bite down on the gag.
Gritted against the surge of pleasure, I moan through it. Like golden threads unspooling throughout my body, along my bones and around my muscles, the climax takes over me—every single bit of my body.
Until I’m completely alight, and writhing on the bed, clenching my thighs shut on his stubborn hand.
It’s only when I try to shove and worm away from him that his fingers slow inside of me, that his thumb stops sliding over my clit, and he lets me come down.
Faintly, I’m aware of the mattress dipping and shifting under me. Then, with one hand, he threads his clean, dry fingers through my hair, around to my nape, then finds the knotted towel fabric.
I breathe through the dwindling golden threads.
My lashes flutter in the dark, but I’m distantly aware of him untying the knot, until the gag loosens.
The air comes smoother and cleaner into my mouth. My lips part around fresh air, and I sag into the mattress, utterly relaxed.
Samick’s hand comes back to my face, then brushes the strip of fabric away from me. I feel it slip over my cheek before it falls to the sheets.
His hand slips away from my mouth, fingertips dragging down my bottom lip, over my chin, then down my body to rest on my hip.
In the dark, he’s unmoving. Like he just kneels there between my legs, and watches me breathe, watches as I almost fall into post-orgasm sleep.
It’s like every ounce of tension in my body has been released.
Gently, his slick hand strokes my inner thigh, as though he’s angled his knuckles closer to my smooth skin and he helps bring me down.
It’s only when I start to fidget in the blinding darkness that he moves. Shifts away from me, hands leaving my body, and then I hear quiet footsteps leave the room.
I close my legs.
And wait.
It’s only a moment before he returns— with the torchlight glaring over papered walls and the wet patch darkening the floral sheets.
He sets the torch down on the nightstand, then drops onto the bed. The mattress dips, rolling me onto my side—and into him.
His gaze cuts down to me.
Before I can worm away, he huffs an annoyed breath and forces his arm between my waist and the mattress.
He tugs me closer with one hand, and with the other, grabs the quilt from the floor. The cover isn’t on it, so it’s cold as he drapes it over us. I wonder if the person who lived here was in the middle of making or stripping the bed when all hell broke loose.
I heave an irritated breath, then wiggle in Samick’s hold until I find a reasonably comfortable spot. I find it. Rest my head on his shoulder, my hand on his chest, and I watch the light ghost over his pale skin.
But with the direct stroke of light, this close up, I notice scars for the first time. They blend into his complexion. Some are ribbed, some short, others wide. But it’s a plastering of scars all over his chest.
I trace a long thin one. “What happened?”
He’s quiet for a heartbeat before, “War.”
I stop tracing it.
The reminder of what he is, what he’s doing here, what he’s done to other places and other people, sinks my gut.
I shut my eyes on the light.