Chapter 42 #2
Then he begins to pull my hips back, inching me farther and farther onto him. Slowly. It happens slowly, slowly, until every thought and feeling and sensation is narrowed to that searing point of contact as he pushes in and in, and, somehow he’s still going.
He pushes in again. Again.
Until I’m so full of him, I can’t think around it, can’t feel beyond him, I can’t get a full breath.
And then, just when I’m wondering how this is possibly going to work, he starts to move.
I curse into the sheets. “Did you have to be so big? I can feel you in my fucking teeth.”
He makes what seems like a tortured sound behind me, but a moment later, his voice is smooth as velvet as he says, “And I can feel you trying not to scream.”
He’s right. Every part of me is clenched tight, because if I let go, if I give in wholly to this building pleasure, I’m going to scream, I’m going to whimper, I’m going to beg, and I’m not going to be able to stop.
He’s going to know he has me all but ensnared, and I can’t have that happen. He can’t know that I’ve never felt anything like this, and that I hate—hate—that it’s coming from him.
My voice is strained as I manage to say, “No. Not at all.”
He laughs darkly behind me, and the sound makes my skin tighten across all the sensitive places I want to be touched.
Everywhere is so raw, so needy. The pain has given way completely to a pleasure like melted-down gold, glimmering, sinking down to my core, curling into blinding, building, unrelenting need.
He increases his pace, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Really? I think you’re lying, Aris. I think you’re a fucking liar. ”
I’m surprised I can keep my composure as I say through gritted teeth, “Or maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.”
In a flash, he pulls me up, one hand palming my breast, the other firm against my hip, and the next thrust is so hard, so deep, my shoulders hike up. My lips part with a choked gasp.
He laughs against the top of my head. “Like that?”
I don’t say a word. I seal my mouth shut.
And his callused fingers just scrape against my sensitive skin, circling my hardened peak, in slow, languid movements, like he has all the time in the world to wait for my response.
My pulse races as those rings get smaller.
Closer. He’s getting closer and closer to where I need him, and his pace is inching to a crawl, drawing it out—until his rough thumb finally brushes against my nipple, and I almost whimper.
He does it again. He pinches it, and heat floods through me, but I keep my fucking mouth shut.
I don’t want him to know that with just a few simple strokes, he’s worked me into an aching, desperate frenzy.
I don’t want him to have that kind of power over me.
But I’m fighting a losing battle with the moans crawling up my throat, and he fucking knows it.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, thanks to my body’s own response to this pleasure, and he growls his approval as he feels just how much I like this.
It’s obvious. I can hear the proof of my enjoyment with every thrust, but that’s not enough, he wants words, he wants the truth, and he’s going to drag it from my lips with every punishing brush of his fingers.
His callused knuckles scrape below the underside of my breast, testing, teasing, wanting me to cry out. Wanting me to break.
I don’t. A moment later, his other hand splays out across my lower abdomen, pressing down hard as he continues to thrust into me—and I see stars.
I fight to breathe. He has me pinned against his muscled body, palming my abdomen like he wants to feel himself inside of me, fucking me like he’s trying to rob me of my sanity, and the pressure builds into a rising, blazing wave of need.
Just when I think I can’t possibly feel any better, his fingers slip between my legs, to the aching core of me, and—
Fuck.
A burst of pleasure races through my veins, and my head is falling back against his chest, and I’m making a sound I’ve never made in my life.
“There it is,” he says, deep voice right in my ear. And then, like a reward, his fingers stroke me into a mess of moans and throaty pleas.
It’s official. He has me. Instead of pinned against a wall with a blade at my throat, he has his rough thumb pressed against my sensitive center, and he knows exactly how to make me cry out for him.
I do. Again, and again. I can’t help it.
He makes a pleased sound. “You’re going to be screaming my name in no time, Aris.
And I’m never going to let you forget it. ”
The bastard.
But I’m not the only one enjoying this. I can feel the proof of it, the extent of that enjoyment dragging through me, hard as steel. I begin to grind my hips back, arching my spine, meeting him stroke for stroke. I sink down deeper, taking even more of him.
His movements falter. It’s all the encouragement I need. I don’t stop. I grind back onto him, riding him like this, clenching, writhing.
“Fuck,” he snarls right against the crown of my head.
A pleased smile spreads across my face as I realize, for the first time, Harlan Raker is completely at my mercy.
And I like it.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I wrench myself free, turn, and push him down onto the sheets, and he lets me, even though he’s baring his teeth at me in warning.
I pin him down. I remember his promise. That soon enough, I’ll be screaming his name. I press my hands against his chest and say, “You’re going to be screaming mine, Harlan.” I must be imagining it, but I swear he shivers.
Then I sink down onto him, taking every brutal inch, and we both curse at the same time.
Fuck. I feel so full it’s hard to breathe.
I’ll never get used to the stretch, to the tight fit, but still …
I want more. His eyes widen as he watches me begin to move on him, like he can’t look away.
I really don’t know what I’m doing, but when I tilt forward, bracing my hands on his hard chest, and find a place that sends a jolt up my spine, I start to move faster, chasing it, wringing every ounce of pleasure I can from him.
His hand reaches toward me, as if on instinct, but he stops himself. Fists the sheets instead. He might as well be touching me, though. His gaze is casting flames. I can feel the heat of it on my chest as I ride him, on my stomach as I arch back, on my face as my lips part with pleasure.
I look at him too. His wide shoulders. Pale, tattooed skin over rippling muscle, unmarred by even a single scar, as if nothing has ever gotten close to hurting him.
At least, that used to be true.
There’s a new mark, across his throat. One I gave him.
We’re enemies. I’ve hated him for years.
We both have wanted each other dead. He’s right.
We really shouldn’t be doing this, but I also don’t ever want to be doing anything else.
Nothing has ever felt so good, so full, so all-encompassing.
My every nerve is sensitive, prickling, fire-swept, embers dancing across my skin.
My nails rake down his abs, and he doesn’t make a move to stop me. My head falls back as I chase my pleasure, as I grind against him, as I move with abandon.
It’s not enough, though. I want more, want to feel him deeper, everywhere.
And I can’t pretend any longer. There’s an ache within me, growing and desperate.
It’s been building for a while, this fire between us, this inevitable battle.
I don’t care if this is wrong, or if I hate him—I want this.
I want it so badly it scares me. “Raker, please,” I say, willing to go on my knees, willing to beg for this.
I don’t even know what I want, but something tells me he knows exactly how to give it to me.
His hand moves to my throat. At first, I think he might squeeze it, but all he does is trace his thumb up and down my pulse and say in a voice forged from pure and utter need, “Say it again.”
Fine. If he wants me to beg, I will.
“Please,” I say, my voice raspy and out of breath.
But he shakes his head. His own voice is strained. “No. My name. Say it.”
Satisfaction spreads through me. He’s not the only one who holds power here. I see it in the desperate flicker in his eye. I see it in the way his muscles are flexing as if he’s holding himself back, as if he too is afraid to let himself go completely.
He might be the greatest knight on Stormside. He might not have a single mark on his armor. But right now, he’s looking at me like I can ruin him.
And he might beg for it.
I slow my movements. He watches, transfixed, as my tongue darts out to lick my lips. Taking my time, I drag my hands down his muscled chest.
Then I bend down low, and say slowly, right above his mouth, “Harlan Raker.”
He flips me over in a flash, his hand curling beneath my knee, pulling one of my legs into an angle against his chest, and then he starts to fuck me at an unyielding, unforgiving pace that has me screaming.
I arch against his body, my nipples scraping against his hard chest every time he slams into me, my toes curling. This is Harlan Raker unleashed.
My spine is a bolt of lightning, gleaming with nerves, sparks spreading with every brutal stroke. His cock drags against a place so deep, so sensitive, I’m whimpering. I’m clawing at his chest.
My head falls back, but he tilts it forward again so that my eyes meet his. “Aris,” he says, his voice a deep rumble I can feel in my bones. I nearly break, hearing my name on his lips like this.
“I,” he says, slamming into me again, dragging me across the sheets. “Hate,” he says, punctuating the word with another brutal thrust. “You.” He slams again.
He’s saying it as if he’s trying to remind himself of that fact.
And the way he’s looking at me … he means it.
He hates me the same way I hate him. He hates that this feels so good. He hates that we both know it. Because it’s undeniable. This fire, flaming, raging between us is undeniable.