Chapter Thirty
Chapter
Thirty
SAGE
My body is shaking.
I can still feel him inside me, even after he’s pulled out. His cum is leaking from between my thighs, warm and slick against my skin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it— Except him.
Malachi Black.
The man who just took my virginity, claimed me in every way a person can be claimed, and then left his mark on my soul like it was always meant to be there.
I stare up at him, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
There’s sweat on his brow. His muscles are tight, jaw clenched like he’s trying to stay in control. But I can feel it now— His need.
It’s not just in his face, or his hands, or the thick, twitching length still glistening between his thighs.
It’s in me.
The bond.
I feel it like a second heartbeat. His hunger. His restraint. His absolute fucking obsession.
And I want to feel it again.
“Malachi,” I whisper, voice hoarse.
He looks down at me—like a man on the edge of breaking.
“I want more,” I say, trembling. “Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He growls low in his throat—raw, possessive, feral—and then he’s flipping me over, dragging me to the edge of the bed until I’m on my knees, chest pressed to the sheets, ass in the air.
“Gods, Sage,” he groans. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
And then he’s inside me again— deep, thick, stretching me open in one long, ruthless thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.
I scream into the sheets, my body arching, pulse slamming against my skin.
“Malachi—”
He doesn’t give me time to think. Doesn’t give me anything except the relentless drag of his cock inside me.
Long, deep strokes at first—controlled, measured.
His hips slam into the backs of my thighs, the sound obscene, wet and loud, matching the slick mess dripping down my legs.
“You feel that?” he growls behind me, voice wrecked, almost animal. One hand fists in my hair, the other locking down on my hip, anchoring me in place. “Feel how deep I am? That’s mine. You’re mine.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes—Malachi?—”
He pulls nearly all the way out and slams back in, harder, sharper.
I cry out again, gripping the sheets so tight my knuckles ache.
But I don’t want him to stop.
I want more.
I want everything.
He fucks me like it’s a punishment and a prayer. Like he needs to burn me into memory. Like this is how he stays sane.
Each thrust knocks the air from my lungs. Each drag of his cock inside me winds me tighter.
I’m panting now, legs shaking, stars prickling behind my eyes.
“Say it again,” he snarls.
“I’m yours,” I sob, high and breathless. “I’m yours—please?—”
He snarls and thrusts harder. Faster. My knees nearly slip from the bed, but he drags me back with brutal precision, keeping me where he wants me.
His fingers dig into my hips so deep I’m sure he’ll leave bruises—marks I want.
His name falls from my lips like a mantra, broken and pleading, and then he hits a spot inside me— and it turns everything white?—
I shatter.
Not quick. Not instant.
Long. Drawn out. Over and over again.
My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, and I swear I black out for a second, trembling so hard my vision blurs.
And I know he feels it. Because I feel him.
The bond sings with it—magic and lust and ownership, pulling us tighter.
He pulls out suddenly, dragging me to my knees on the floor in front of him.
I look up, dazed and wrecked and panting.
He strokes his cock, eyes wild, jaw tight.
“Open your mouth.”
I do.
“Good girl.”
He feeds it to me slowly, and I take him deeper, hungry for it, addicted to the taste and the power in his voice when I swirl my tongue around the head.
He watches me, hand in my hair, hips rocking forward.
“You like this?”
I moan around him in answer.
His hips jerk. His muscles tighten.
And then he comes—hot and thick, down my throat.
I take every drop.
I don’t spill a single fucking thing.
And when he pulls out, panting, sweat dripping from his brow, I look up at him and smile.
Because I want him again.
Because I’m not done.
And neither is he.