Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
SANDRA
He kisses me like I'm the only thing in the universe that matters. It’s raw. Desperate. The kind of kiss that says I almost lost you—and I'm never letting go at the same time. My back hits the suite door before I even register that we've moved.
"Inside," I gasp against his mouth.
He's already fumbling for the door panel, his other hand fisted in the fabric of my shirt. His shirt, technically, still stained sunset-orange from my dramatic staircase tumble. His claws snag the hem, and I feel the faintest scrape of sharpness against my hip.
Something about that tiny sting sends heat flooding through me.
The door slides open and we stumble through. Fercer kicks it shut without breaking the kiss, knocking his horn against the doorframe in the process.
"Ow."
"Smooth," I murmur against his jaw. "Very rockstar."
"Shut up." But he's grinning, and then his mouth is on my neck and I forget how words work.
His lips trace the line of my throat. Hot. Volscian body temperature runs higher than human, and right now his mouth feels like a brand against my pulse point. His tongue drags over the hollow of my throat, and I make a sound that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left.
I lost that somewhere around the lamp incident. We've established this.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Those black eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
Then he's lifting me, hands under my thighs like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and the shift in position presses me against the hard ridge of his stomach. Against something else, too. Something very hard and very interested, straining against the front of his pants.
He sets me on the edge of the bed and steps between my thighs, and the height difference means I'm looking up at him. All crimson skin and corded muscle, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, black eyes burning with something that makes my insides liquid.
"You're beautiful," he says, like it's a fact. Like the twin suns rise in the morning.
"I'm covered in orange juice stains. Not orange juice itself, but the color, because you know it's orange and—"
"Beautiful." He presses a single finger over my lips, stopping my nervous banter. His claws retract as he reaches for the buttons of my shirt. His shirt. Whatever. His fingers are careful. Deliberate. Undoing each one like it's something to be savored.
He sets me on the bed and steps between my thighs, undoing each button of my shirt with deliberate care. The shirt falls open, and his gaze tracks over exposed skin.
"I love every part of you," he murmurs against my skin. His lips trail to the next scar. "Every single part."
Oh no. Oh no. This is worse than the speech. This is worse than "I love you" in front of an entire hotel lobby. This quiet, deliberate declaration is going to wreck me in ways I am fundamentally unprepared for.
I yank his shirt over his head because if I don't do something with my hands, I'm going to cry, and crying during sex is not the vibe I'm going for.
He helps, pulling the fabric free, and then he's bare from the waist up.
Crimson skin stretched over muscle that shifts and flexes as he moves.
The dim suite lighting catches the planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach.
His forked tail sways behind him, the hardened tip curling and uncurling.
I've seen this before. On the ship. I stared at the ceiling and pretended I didn't notice.
I'm done pretending.
I yank his shirt over his head. My palms flatten against his chest. Hot crimson skin over shifting muscle. The double-thud of his two hearts beneath my hands, beating fast.
My hands wrap behind his neck and I pull, desperate to feel more of him. He responds instantly, his body covering mine as he eases me back onto the mattress. The weight of him is solid. Grounding. Real.
His body covers mine, solid and grounding, and his mouth works down my throat, lower, lips closing around the peak of one breast. The sound I make is not dignified.
His hand slides down my stomach, below the hem.
"Stars," he breathes. "You're—"
"If you say something poetic right now, I will actually combust."
"I was going to say ready." His fingers move, and my hips jerk. "Incredibly ready."
"Been ready since—" I lose the sentence as his thumb circles my nub in a slow, deliberate stroke. "Since—oh. Oh, that's—"
"Since?" There's a teasing edge to his voice now, and I would smack him if my entire nervous system wasn't rerouting to the space between my thighs.
"Since you—oh, you're good at this," I gasp. "Don't let it go to your—ah—"
He's devastatingly, unfairly good at this, reading my body like sheet music, adjusting pressure and rhythm based on every hitch of my breath. One finger slides inside me, then two, curling, and the stretch is perfect and not enough at the same time.
"I need you," I whisper against his lips. "All of you."
Pants come off. There's a graceless moment where his foot gets tangled in fabric and we're both laughing, and it's nothing like the romance novels on his shelf. It's better. Messy and real and us.
Then he's bare, and I look, and the length of him, the two distinct bulges along the shaft, the ridges between them—my brain short-circuits.
I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his hardness, and the groan he releases is the best sound I've ever heard. Just for me.
He's hot in my hand. The ridges catch against my palm as I stroke, and his hips buck forward, tail snapping taut behind him.
"Come here," I whisper, pulling him closer.
He settles between my thighs. The blunt head of his member presses against my entrance, and we both go still. His forehead drops to mine. Our breathing mingles.
"I love you," he says. No performance. No audience. Just the truth, spoken into the space between our mouths.
"I love you too." The words don't stick in my throat like I expected them to. They come out easy. Inevitable.
People leave. They always leave.
But maybe, just maybe, this one won't.
He pushes forward. Slowly. Inch by inch, letting me adjust to the stretch, to the fullness, to the impossible heat of him. The first bulge presses inside, and I gasp, back arching.
"Keep going. Don't you dare stop."
The second bulge stretches me wider, a pressure that borders on too much before tipping into perfect. The ridges between them drag against my inner walls, each one a spark of sensation that has my fists knotting in the sheets.
"Oh my god." I'm shaking. He's barely moved and I'm already shaking.
We move together. Slowly at first, finding each other's rhythm. Then faster, harder, as his thrusts build in urgency. Each stroke drags those ridges against every sensitive spot, and the dual bulges hit depths that make sparks explode behind my eyes.
His hand finds mine on the sheets. Fingers interlace. He pins our joined hands above my head and drives deeper, and I cry out, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer.
"Fercer..." His name comes out like a prayer. "I'm—I can't—"
"Let go." His mouth brushes my ear. "I've got you, Sandra. Let me be the one to catch you when you fall."
The orgasm hits me like a wave. Like drowning and surfacing at the same time.
I shatter around him, clenching and trembling, his name tearing from my throat.
And somewhere in the flood of it, I feel him follow, a roar that vibrates through his whole body, his hips snapping forward as his release fills me.
We collapse together. Breathing hard. Tangled. Wrecked. His tail curls around my thigh in a lazy, possessive loop.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. I press my face into the curve of his neck and breathe him in, spice and warmth and mine.
Mine.
Huh. Look at that. Turns out claiming language isn't just a Volscian thing.