Chapter Fifteen #2
His hand moves between my thighs, and the gasp that tears from my chest is loud enough to ring against stone walls, my hips pressing forward into his palm before conscious thought has a chance to moderate the movement.
“Keep testing me like that, and I’ll make you scared of me.
” He doesn’t tease. His fingers find me slick and burning, and the first stroke is precise enough to make my vision blur at the edges, pressure applied exactly where it needs to be with a certainty that suggests he has been paying attention to every involuntary response my body has given him since the moment he touched me.
When he slides two fingers inside me, the cold follows them in, a lance of sensation that shoots straight up through my core and steals the next breath clean from my lungs.
“Oh fuck!” I whimper, ice and heat together, his dragon bleeding through the contact in ways that should not be possible but are, devastatingly so.
My body responds by clenching around him hard enough that a rough sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a breath dragged out by force.
He chuckles as his fingers curl, finding the place inside me that makes my vision go white, and he presses with enough precision to make my back arch off the mattress entirely, spine bowing as my hands scramble for something to hold onto and find his shoulders instead, nails digging in until blood wells dark beneath my fingertips.
“That’s it, take what I give you.” He works me with a rhythm that doesn’t rush but doesn’t relent, reading every sharp inhale and every shift of my hips and adjusting pressure and angle until my thighs are shaking badly enough to rattle the frame beneath us.
The ice traces the edges of the bruises already blooming where his other hand grips my hip, cold fire that burns in its own particular way, and the contrast between the chill spreading across my skin and the heat coiling tighter at my center twists the tension inside me until it vibrates like a drawn wire.
“Oh God, don’t stop!” I grip his wrist and grind down against his hand hard enough that there is nothing left to misinterpret, my hips moving with a need that has stopped caring about dignity or restraint, his fingers respond by curling harder, pressing deeper, and the sound that leaves my mouth is raw, broken, and too honest to swallow back.
The pressure inside me has been climbing for longer than I can track, coiling with every stroke, shift, and place where cold meets heat against my skin until it sits directly on the edge of shattering.
His eyes find mine across the narrow space between our bodies, and what stares back at me is not entirely human.
The ice in his gaze has cracked open into something hotter, hungrier, pupils blown so wide there is barely any blue left, and the last wall behind his expression gives way all at once, something surrendering that he has been holding with everything he has.
And suddenly, he withdraws his hand, and the rapid, devastating absence of him drags a sound from my chest that borders on a snarl.
My hips chase the contact for a split second before the rest of the world sharpens back into focus, and I see what replaces it.
His cock presses between my legs, and I glance down to sneak a peek.
He is huge, his body faintly glowing with blue scales, his hands braced on the bed, either side of my head, his chest heaving, every line of his body locked in the particular tension that exists only in the space between wanting something and deciding to take it.
He’s not moving.
He’s waiting.
The look on his face while he does it, hunger sharpened into something that borders on reverence despite the violence barely contained beneath it, makes my breath catch harder than anything his hands have done to me tonight.
I curl my fingers around the nape of his neck and pull him down until his forehead presses against mine, breath to breath, and the heat between us is so dense at this point it has actual substance.
“Don’t stop,” I say, and his restraint breaks.
A low growl reverberates from his chest, loud enough that the bed vibrates.
It sends goose bumps pebbling across my skin as he thrusts inside me with enough force to drive every molecule of air from my lungs in a single, searing rush.
The sound that tears from my chest is something beyond language, raw, shattered, and stripped of everything except pure sensation.
My body opens around him, the stretch of him bordering on too much, sitting right on the edge where pain and pleasure stop being separate things and become something singular and all encompassing.
My hands slam flat against his back, nails embedding because holding on is the only thing keeping me grounded to anything that exists outside of this.
He holds perfectly still, and the effort of that stillness shudders through every muscle in his body in waves I can feel against my skin.
His pulse slams against the inside of my thigh where his hip is pressed flush against mine, heat radiating outward from him in pulses that chase away the last traces of cold clinging to my skin.
His forehead drops to the curve of my neck, his breathing comes in rough, measured intervals, each one controlled and deliberate, the breathing of someone holding himself together by threads that might snap at any moment.
Then I decide to move.
A single roll of my hips, slow and deliberate, adjusting to the fullness of him, and the sound that leaves his throat is not a growl so much as something dragged up from somewhere far deeper than instinct—primal, wrecked, barely human.
His hands tighten on my hips hard enough that I know without looking the bruises will be spectacular.
When he pulls back just far enough that I register the drag of him against every nerve ending inside me before driving forward again, the rhythm that follows is not gentle by any definition that has ever existed.
“Fuck! I’m trying not to break you.” He thrusts deep and punishing, each one slamming home hard enough to force the breath from my chest in sharp, involuntary bursts that I cannot control or soften.
“I can take it. Just don’t you fucking stop!
” The sound of skin against skin fills the room, layered with the creak of the bed frame and the ragged, torn quality of my breathing as I match him, lifting my hips to meet every stroke, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper with each one until the impact reverberates through my bones and settles in my teeth.
His grip shifts, one hand releasing my hip to slide up my side and fist in my hair, yanking my head back to bare my throat entirely, and his mouth finds the bite mark he left earlier, still tender, still raw at the edges, and presses his lips against it as he moves.
The contrast between the brutal force driving through his body and the almost aching gentleness of his mouth against the wound cracks something open in my chest that has nothing to do with the physical.
Ice blooms across my skin in thin, intricate patterns wherever his fingers press, frost tracing the lines of his grip on my hip, skating along the curve of my waist, threading through the hair splayed across the pillow beneath my head.
The cold should sting but it doesn’t, not when it is chased immediately by the heat of his body covering mine.
The sensation of both at once, his dragon bleeding through every point of contact, marking me in ways that go far beyond bruises and bite marks, sends electricity jolting through my nervous system hard enough to make my thighs lock tighter around him.
“Harder!” I gasp, and the word barely makes it past my teeth before he delivers on it, adjusting the angle until every thrust strikes the place inside me that has been coiling tighter with every stroke, the one that whites out my vision and drags sounds from my chest that have stopped being words.
Sharp gasps and broken cries are torn free by the sheer force of sensation building toward something that cannot be stopped, only endured, only surrendered to.
His hand releases my hair and drops to my throat, closing around it with a pressure that is not choking but absolute, claiming and possessive, holding me pinned beneath the full weight of what he is while his rhythm turns relentless and unforgiving.
The ice intensifies around his fingers, frost racing up the tendons of his forearm as his control fractures further, the dragon surging closer to the surface with every thrust. The cold kiss of it against my pulse makes my heart slam harder against his palm until the pressure of it becomes its own kind of sensation, adrenaline and want flooding through me in equal measure.
I rake my nails down his shoulders hard enough to leave furrows that bleed freely, red lines that sear bright against his skin before frost traces their edges, and the sound he makes is satisfaction, deep, rough, and barely restrained.
His grip on my throat tightens by a single, deliberate degree, and his hips drive forward with enough force to push me up the mattress, the friction of sheets against my back, a roughness that adds to everything else until sensation is layered on sensation, and there is no separating any of it.
“I’m so fucking close,” I manage, and the words come out wrecked, barely audible over the sound of him moving inside me.
His response is to release my throat entirely and drive his arm beneath my hip, lifting me and changing the angle so completely that the next thrust hits deep enough to knock a sound out of me that borders on a scream.
The new angle makes every stroke land harder, deeper, the pressure building inside me with a momentum that has stopped being something I can ride and become something I can only be carried by.