30 #3
He sucked in a hissed breath. Then he released it with an almost purred sound that sat in his throat—that caused every part of me to still.
But I touched him again, and encountered something soft. A vein. Rubbing it, I tried to conjure the courage to ask if I could move his robes aside to see him. Before I could, he moved me.
Straight onto his lap.
My core pressed against his cock. Sparks flew. I gasped and planted my hands on his shoulders.
Taking my hip in one hand and my face in the other, he threaded his fingers into my hair. Hoarse, he whispered, “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “And you?” Shaking my head, I laughed quietly. “Do you like it, I mean.”
Amusement splashed his eyes before his lashes drooped. Tilting my head, he rumbled against my jaw, “I fucking love it.”
He kissed my cheek, then the corner of my lips. Kisses so soft, I squirmed over him.
His hand clenched my hip, and I froze. “Again,” he whispered, urging me to move by firming his grip. “Don’t stop.”
I rocked my hips.
Pleasure ignited once more, and I didn’t await his approval. I chased the sparks.
My legs curled around him. As did my arms, loosely joining behind his neck as his breath broke against my lips. My breasts brushed his chest. The contact heightened the sensations swarming me. I didn’t just like it. Rubbing against him in pursuit of that perfect friction…
It was both too much and not enough.
Our kisses became lazy swipes between labored exhales. His immense heat, coupled with the hunt for pleasure, caused more sweat to mist my skin. His hand left my face to mold to my other hip—to rock me harder against him.
He whispered to my flushed skin. Mutterings I didn’t understand against my lips and cheek and neck. Yet they made my frantic heartbeat skip.
The air in his small room became oppressive. Thick. Dizzied, I shifted and fought a moan when his cock pressed against my clit. Instinctively, my body bucked—dug into him over and over until I was panting.
A hand climbed to my nape and gripped it. Another murmur at my ear turned my noisy breaths into a low whine.
Voran silenced me with his lips. Bruising, he kissed me as I began to shake.
I broke free, unable to breathe as sensation swept through me like a slow twirl of leaves. Panting, I moved harder. Faster. I ground into him until I feared I was hurting him and forced myself to stop.
“No,” he growled. That hand at my nape crawled into my hair. He pushed my forehead against his, our eyes meeting. “Come for me, myishla.”
Those words…
I let go—pressed into him again and again. Then I gasped and tensed.
His own inhale hitched.
Before a throaty moan could leave my mouth, he covered it with his. He kept my lips shut as I clung to him and rode the fading tremors. As I fought for breath while shaking.
Then his lips slipped from mine with a searing, “Fuck.”
He stiffened. His arm and hand became a band of steel at my back and hip, moving me, then stilling me when he shuddered. A groan, long and growled, was muffled by my shoulder as he held me so tight that I continued to struggle for breath.
I didn’t care.
But when he relaxed, he dug his hand into my hair and took my face in the other. Muttering something in that old language, he peppered my lips and throat in kisses. An apology, maybe, or as close to an apology as this male would get. He hardened, twitching at my damp core.
My eyes widened.
Sensing my surprise, he released a rasping chuckle. “What should we do next?”
My imagination immediately ran to places it shouldn’t. Places that involved him looming over me. “I need to go, Voran.”
He ceased kissing my shoulder. His head lifted slowly, as if to give me time to retract what I’d said.
Displeasure darkened his eyes.
Once, such a look from him would have tightened every bone. Now, I just smiled sincerely and collected sweat-dampened strands from his cheek. Combing them into his hair, I laid my forehead on his. “It’s late, and unlike you, the rest of us must do chores.”
He glared.
I smiled wider.
A mistake. He snatched my lips with his own. My shocked laugh became a noisy sigh as he grazed the sides of my breasts with his knuckles.
He did it again, and murmured, “Every sound you make tugs at my cock.”
“Even my chirping?”
“Especially the fucking chirping.”
“So romantic,” I teased.
“You don’t want romantic, Ayla.” He nipped my upper lip. “You want unyielding obsession.” As he soothed the sting with a whisper-soft kiss, his eyes caught mine. “That’s why you’re here with me.”
I stared at him.
He stared back—seemed to wait. For me to deny it, perhaps.
I couldn’t.
But I did wonder if that was what this was. If this forbidden fixation was something like an obsession. Whatever it was, I was tired of feeling guilty for it. For wanting him so much that it felt like he was venom in my veins, and the only remedy was him.
I looped my arms around his neck. Squashed my breasts against his hard chest and my mouth against his. Then we were fighting to kiss each other. Rougher, wetter, deeper. I couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t seem to kiss him enough to stop.
So I didn’t, and neither did he.
Not until sleep interrupted us.