Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Thyra
Without taking his eyes off me, Antony moves slowly, removing first the metal glove covering the hand holding mine, then his other glove, maintaining the contact between our hands at every possible moment.
The softest click sounds as he releases the ruby circlet.
It falls from my wrist, the loose end clattering softly to the ground, the other end remaining around his arm.
A moment later, he steps slowly to the side, pressing his back against the wall, leaving the space behind me completely open.
“You’re free to step away from me at any time,” he says, his gaze burning mine. “If you want to stop, moving away is all you need to do.”
I sway toward him, closing the gap that formed when he adjusted his position, but our clasped hands between our chests keep me from pressing as close as I want to.
“If you want me to take off any part of my armor, just ask.” His voice is increasingly ragged, his focus falling to my lips. “But be warned: This armor constrains me. The more I wear, the safer it is for you.”
“I understand.”
Slowly, I pull his shackled hand down and out of the way, allowing me to step into him, reach up on my tiptoes, and draw his head to mine.
Finally, I press my lips to his.
My mind fills with all the darkness of his mouth. The taste of blood and tears. A life of iron and death.
He stands completely still for a devastating heartbeat.
Then his free arm rises around me, dragging me closer, clamping hard against my back.
His lips destroy me, desperate kisses, his groans thrumming against my mouth.
My body floods with need.
A need that’s been building since he first lay over me and protected me from the vampyrs.
When my head spins, and I gasp for breath against his lips, his eyes glitter down at me.
He drags his free hand from my shoulder and slowly around the side of my neck and down to my collarbone.
I gasp again when I realize he’s touching me, not through the Lethian armor, but skin on skin.
The silver material parts, the threads separating and exposing a line of my skin where he trails his fingertip down between my breasts and to my stomach.
Slowly, like a parting wave in the wake of his finger, the material’s edges pull back until a deep V forms, barely covering the inside of my breasts.
One corner of his mouth hitches up as he trails his finger lazily across my stomach and up around the outside of my left breast, parting the material so that it leaves only a narrow strip covering my breast on that side.
I lean toward him, needing more. More contact. More than the light brush of a single fingertip. Need to grind my aching breasts against his chest.
With a firm press of the heel of his palm, he keeps me at bay, ensuring my near-bruised lips remain inches from his.
Around and around, he trails his finger, each swirl bringing him closer to my nipple while leaving it covered. Agonizingly close.
I push toward him again, only for his shackled hand to close around my hip, keeping us apart.
Meanwhile, his trailing finger swirls lazily toward my pelvis, separating my armor and sliding lightly toward my center.
My hips buck against him, the heat between my legs becoming unbearable, when he strokes down one side of my folds, a teasing, tantalizing touch.
His gaze remains on my face, flicking to my parted lips.
He can’t be unaware of my increasingly jagged breathing or the soft moans leaving my lips as his hand strokes upward again, still across one side of my folds, a tantalizing touch as he avoids touching my core and giving me the relief my body is already screaming for.
Beneath his smile, I sense his darkness and the way every stroke tests him, even if I don’t fully understand why or how he fears he’d hurt me or what particularly monstrous impulse he’s quelling. Of course, I can imagine. There are too many ways a man can hurt a woman.
His fingers stroke back and forth against my skin without touching my center until I’m panting and straining toward him.
I fight to stop myself from pushing harder against him and verbally demanding more, aware of his uneven breathing and the way his hair falls across his face as if he’s determined to hide the shadows growing in his eyes.
Back and forth, his hands stroke lightly. Too lightly. And now my entire body aches, the deepest need building in my core and within my breasts. Even my lips. All needing his touch.
I can’t stop my whimpering moan as my desire becomes more than I can bear. Can’t stop my hands from rising to press to his chest. Can’t stop my back arching as I begin to rock against his hand, clenching my core in a desperate attempt to somehow bring on my own release.
The moment I arch, he snarls, a hungry sound that sends a violent shiver down my spine.
With a hard wrench—a push of his shackled hand and a tug of his free hand—he turns me around so I’m facing away from him.
A heartbeat later, he yanks me up against his chest, my back connecting with the hard steel covering his torso.
My head spins, and I barely have time to catch my breath before his shackled hand rises to my left breast, the chain giving him enough leeway to cover my suddenly naked flesh.
His palm grinds against my hard nipple while his free hand sweeps to my core. Finally. Finally…stroking between my folds.
But only once before he sweeps a little lower, collecting the moisture from my wet core and stroking it up the side of my clit before easing across the hard nub.
Hot pleasure strikes through me as he rubs softly.
Small, perfect strokes as he buries his head against the side of my neck, his lips dragging at my earlobe, his teeth grazing the side of my throat, his mouth closing over the curve at the top of my shoulder, and his tongue swirling against my skin.
My naked skin. Since the threads part wherever he touches me.
My breath catches in my chest, an internal pressure building, until I’m forced to let it out, release the air, dragging in a new breath, not even trying to fight my increasing moans.
His shackled hand kneads my breast, a hard touch becoming quickly lighter, a soft play with my nipple that makes me rock harder against his hand, wanting, needing release.
When he slides his hand lower, leaving my clit, the break in pleasure only lasts a moment before he pushes the tip of his finger inside me while the heel of his palm rubs against my clit.
The sliding sensation is my undoing.
A blinding orgasm crashes across me, filling my head with heat and want, making me arch into his hands, straining for more, wanting his fingers deeper, but even when my hands clamp over his arm, urging him lower, he remains resolutely where he is.
I tremble through the crash, a release that should be complete but only makes me want more.
Pulling against his hold, I gasp at how easily he lets me go.
He’s true to his promise.
He told me all I had to do was step away, and he would stop.
I swing to face him.
I’m sweating, my hair clinging to the sides of my face, my chest heaving, my left breast fully uncovered while swirls of silver material cover my other breast. The armor across my pelvis remains pulled aside, leaving me completely exposed.
I don’t want the threads to cover me yet, and it seems they respond to my needs.
As I try to find my ability to speak, Antony lifts his fingers to his lips, barely disturbing the strands of hair falling across his eyes, to suck on the moisture my body must have left on his skin.
I try to read his state of mind, but it’s impossible.
“Step back while you can, Thyra,” he says.
My heart sinks.
If he’s still trying to put distance between us, then it means the pleasure he gave me has done nothing to break through his fears.
I tip up my chin, defiant. “Again.”
His hands twitch. “Again?”
I take a step toward him.
“Again,” I say, determined. “Facing you this time.”
His lips press together before he replies. “That isn’t so easy for my hands—”
“Not with your hands. With your mouth.”
His shoulders immediately tense.
I continue. “Without your chest armor.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, at which I say, “I want to feel your naked shoulders beneath my hands when I come.”
I take another step toward him, deliberately provocative. “I want to run my hands through your hair when I come.”
Another dangerous step closer, close enough for him to reach out and seize me.
“I want to feel your naked chest against my legs when I—”
His free arm closes around me, pulling me up against him, up against all the steel still covering his body.
His mouth closes over mine. A hard, demanding kiss that heats my already aching core before he jolts back again, leaving me to teeter on the spot.
I wait for him to speak. Wait for him to decide. And when his silence stretches, I force myself to speak. A hoarse whisper. “Will you do as I ask?”
He answers me by reaching up with his free hand to the armored plates covering his left shoulder.
Soft clicks sound as he peels them from his body.
Followed by the other plates covering his arms and chest, including the in-built compartment holding his axe, until he’s left wearing only the leather strap that covers his heart and the corresponding straps that hold it in place.
He doesn’t stop there.
As if my challenge has triggered him to test every edge of his control, he pulls off his leg armor, leaving him in a pair of long pants that don’t hide his arousal.
I’ve seen him even more naked than this. Back at the cabin. Seen the scar across his stomach that I chose to focus on at the time instead of the immense size and length of his cock.
As the final piece of metal clatters to the floor, he hunkers before me, every muscle visibly tense, his chest rising and falling far more slowly than before.
It feels like an illusory calm. As if the more slowly he breathes, the more dangerous he becomes.
Until he’s seething with anger, a fury that drags softly between his teeth and into his massive chest.