Chapter 41
AMELIA
When I woke, the world was blue-grey and silent except for the hum of the heater and the steady thunder of Caiden’s heart against my back.
I tried to move and found myself pinned. The length of Caiden’s arm draped across my ribs, his hand heavy and possessive. His legs were tangled with mine.
My first instinct was to flinch, to brace for the violence that always came after tenderness. But then I remembered last night in a blur of heat and sweat, and the sensation of being pleasured by him.
I relaxed, exhaling into the starched pillowcase and allowing the weight of his body to hold me.
I didn’t feel broken at all. I lay there, letting him anchor me, the memory of his hands and mouth still painting lightning over my skin.
My thighs ached in a way that was almost sweet; I felt the sticky proof of him between my legs and shivered, embarrassed and proud at the same time.
He pressed his lips to the back of my neck.
I could feel him smiling, or at least, smiling in the way that Caiden did.
“You awake?” he murmured, voice low and still rough with sleep.
“Yeah.” My voice came out small, but not afraid.
He pulled me closer, so my spine pressed to his chest, his thigh hitching up between mine. I felt the heat of him, the slow, contented pulse of him nestled against the curve of my ass.
The memory of his mouth on me made the room spin a little.
He nuzzled my neck, breathing in deep, his nose in my hair. “You smell like me,” he said, and I could hear the pride in it.
“I know,” I said, but the words came out soft, almost fond.
He made a sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and his fingers drifted lower, skirting the edge of my hip.
For a moment, I thought maybe last night had been a fluke, a fever dream, that he’d pull away and say nothing more about it.
But instead, he dragged his palm slowly over the curve of my belly, until it rested just above the triangle of my thighs.
“Amelia,” he said, and there was a plea in it, almost a tremble, a note of fear that I’d choose to vanish from this moment. His other arm tightened, pinning me more firmly, as if to warn the future against coming to drag us back into ourselves.
I turned in his arms and studied his face. Creased with sleep, lashes stuck together, a faint red line pressed into his cheek from the pillow. His hair was a wild black-brown halo, sticking up in a way that would have horrified him in daylight.
He didn’t look like a monster or an enemy or even a man who’d spent years perfecting the art of self-destruction. He looked impossibly young, softer than I ever remembered. I felt my heart try to crawl up my throat.
“Say it again,” I whispered.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers trembling. “You smell like me.”
I bit my lip, trying to hold back the laugh that threatened to shatter the quiet. “And what do you smell like?”
He didn’t break eye contact, not for a second. “You,” he said. Then, “Everywhere.”
My skin prickled, all over, as if a cold wind had swept through the room. I burrowed deeper into him, needing to feel the press of skin on skin.
He obliged, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs, dragging me up until I was straddling his hips.
We stayed like that for a minute, breathing each other in. I felt the slow, insistent hardening of his cock beneath me, and it was almost funny how little time it took for the ache to return.
He didn’t say anything; he just cupped my ass in both hands and held me there, as if the solution to every problem lay in bodies, in skin, in the slow collision of our need.
I bent forward, bracing my hands on either side of his head, and kissed him, soft at first, then harder, until his mouth opened to mine and I could taste myself on his tongue.
He groaned into the kiss, teeth grazing my bottom lip, then broke away to bury his face in my chest.
His mouth was a goddamn sin against my skin. Hot, wet, and relentless.
I arched into him, desperate for more, grinding my hips against his with a deliberate, filthy rhythm that made him gasp like a man on the edge of death.
His hands gripped my hips like he wanted to crush me, to own every inch of me, and I loved it.
The blanket slid away, exposing my back to the cold air, but his body was a furnace, all hard muscle and burning desire.
He rolled us, pinning me beneath him, and I could feel the sheet fall away, leaving me exposed and shivering, but fuck, the way he looked at me, eyes dark with hunger, made me burn hotter than any flame.
“Fuck,” he said in that hot and husky way, his tongue trailing over my nipple, leaving it hard and aching. “I could do this every day. All day.”
He paused, those eyes locking onto mine, and I swear I felt my pulse stutter. “You’re insatiable,” he accused, but there was no way to miss the admiration in his voice, the way it wrapped around me like a promise.
“So are you,” I shot back, but the words melted into a moan as his mouth moved lower, leaving a wet, torturous trail down my stomach.
I grabbed at his hair, pushing the dark mess away from his face so I could see the raw fucking hunger in his eyes. He stared up at me, lips glistening, and I knew I was the only thing he wanted, the only thing he needed.
He hooked his arms under my thighs, dragging me higher, spreading me open like some kind of offering.
I was splayed wide, completely at his mercy, and the way he looked at me left me breathless.
He smirked, and then he ducked down and licked a long, slow stripe from the crease of my thigh up through the aching heat of me.
I jolted, grabbing at the headboard, the cold metal biting into my palms as he did it again, lazy and unhurried, like he was savoring every taste.
“So sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself, and I felt myself clench around nothing, desperate and aching.
He took his time, every brush of his tongue punctuated by little nips and kisses, until I was writhing and begging, my legs thrown wide, my mind shattered.
He got me close, then stopped, resting his chin on the inside of my knee, those eyes burning into mine.
“You ever let anyone else do this to you?” he asked, his voice low, pulsing with jealousy and something darker. Something like ownership. Like even after all these years, he still wanted to be the only one.
“No,” I admitted, my voice shaky. “I’ve only ever been with Dante, but it was nothing like this.”
That seemed to thrill him. “Good.”
He dove back in, his mouth greedy and relentless, eating me like he’d starve if he stopped.
I bucked hard, my heels digging into the sheets, but he just clamped his hands tighter on my hips, pinning me open, devouring every fucking moan that spilled out of me.
I felt the scrape of his teeth, the soft forgiveness of his tongue, and I shattered almost instantly. My body convulsed. A hot, wild pulse that left me gasping and raw.
He didn’t stop. He kept going, licking me through every aftershock, until I was sobbing with pleasure and trying to twist away.
Only then did he let up, crawling up my body, dragging his lips over my stomach, my ribs, my breasts, his tongue flicking every patch of skin he could find.
When he reached my mouth, he kissed me hard, his tongue tasting of me, and I almost sobbed again at the ferocity of it.
He pressed his hips between my thighs, his cock already thick and rigid against my inner leg.
I reached for him, stroked him once, twice, and he shuddered in my grip, his breath a ragged stutter in my ear. “You’re fucking killing me,” he groaned.
He kissed me like he wanted to eat my soul, then broke away and levered himself off the bed, still fully naked, tanned skin and hard under the watery morning light.
Before I could protest, he hooked his arms under my knees, dragged me to the edge, and dropped my legs over the side, so I lay flat on my back, open and shaking, staring up at him as he loomed above me.
For a second, he just looked, his face drawn tight with awe and hunger. My thighs trembled. My nipples peaked in the cold air, and I watched his cock as he stepped closer, fisting it lazily, the tip already covered with precum.
He watched me watching him, and the arrogance was back. Sexy, dangerous, but now softened by the way he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
He curled one hand behind my calf, lifting it to his shoulder, and ran his other palm up the inside of my thigh, spreading me open. He stared, unashamed, at the mess he’d made before. “You’re fucking perfect,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He lined himself up and pressed forward, slow but forceful, sliding deep inside until my back arched off the mattress.
I moaned, raw and high, clutching at the sheets. He started a pace, shallow and teasing, refusing to give me the force I craved.
I tried to rock against him, but he caught my hips, holding me flat with iron hands. “No,” he said. “You’re gonna take it. All of it. I want you to remember this later, when you’re alone, when you’re thinking of me.”
God, I would. I’d remember every fucking inch of him, every word, every sound he made as he took me apart. I’d remember the morning heat, the way the cheap sheets stuck to my back, the blur of his hips as he fucked me with a slowness that bordered on cruelty.
And I’d love it.
His hips snapped forward, driving into me with sudden force that made my entire body jolt.
"You like that?" he said, his voice a dark rumble that vibrated through my bones. "When I take what's mine?"
"Yes," I breathed, unable to form more coherent thoughts as he began to move in earnest, each thrust harder than the last.
The bed frame creaked dangerously beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that would leave no doubt to anyone passing by what was happening inside.
Caiden gripped my thigh tighter, pushing it higher until my knee nearly touched my shoulder, opening me completely to him.
The new angle sent him impossibly deeper, touching places inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Look at me," he commanded, and I forced my heavy lids open to meet his gaze.