Chapter 47 #2
“Mark me. I want to wear you under my clothes tomorrow. I want to feel you every time I move and remember exactly how you sounded when you gave me these.”
I dig my nails in harder, rake them down his spine, and the noise he makes is inhuman—a snarl that vibrates through my chest as his hips snap forward with renewed ferocity.
His rhythm is rougher now, and he thrusts into me so deep the breath leaves my body.
The headboard cracks against the wall. My body jolts with each impact, driven up the mattress before his hand fists in my hair and drags me back down to meet him.
The pleasure is so immense I can’t do anything except drown in it.
“Now come on my cock so hard that my name is the only one your body remembers.” His voice is wrecked. His hips snap forward with a force that tears a scream from my throat.
I shatter. The orgasm rips through me without warning, starting at the place where he’s buried inside me and radiating outward in waves so violent that my back bows off the mattress, my thighs lock around his hips, and the sound that tears from my mouth is something between his name and a sigh that I can’t control and don’t try to.
He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, each thrust prolonging the convulsions until I’m writhing, oversensitive, and still he goes, his pace relentless, his grip on my hip hard enough that I’ll wear his fingerprints like jewelry tomorrow.
Then he pulls out. The loss is so sudden that a sound escapes me, and I open my eyes to find him kneeling between my thighs, chest heaving, his cock slick with me, his gaze so black and feral it barely looks human.
“Turn over,” he growls, and the way sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through me despite the fact that I just came so hard I forgot my own name.
“Aric—”
“On all fours.”
But before I can speak or move, he turns me onto my hands and knees with one heft move, and the vulnerability of the position—exposed and open—makes my arms tremble.
I feel the air against the wetness between my thighs, and my face burns hot even as my body arches instinctively, offering itself to him in a way my brain hasn’t sanctioned.
His hand slides up my spine slowly, every vertebra mapped beneath his palm like he’s memorizing the shape of me. When he reaches the nape of my neck, his fingers thread into my hair and grip.
My head tips back, throat exposed, a gasp torn from my lungs.
“This is what I’ve been fighting.” His voice comes from directly behind me, low and destroyed, his breath hitting the curve of my shoulder.
“Every damn night in my office, trying to convince myself I didn’t want you like this...
” His free hand grips my hip, fingers digging into the flesh, positioning me exactly where he wants me. “On your knees for me.”
The tip of his manhood presses against my entrance, and I feel how slick I am—from him, from me, from the wreckage of the previous rounds still dripping down my inner thighs—and the filthy, wet sound when he drags his cock through it makes my elbows buckle.
“Tell me what you want.” He pushes just the crown inside and holds there, and the restraint behind it—the coiled, trembling effort of not slamming forward—is hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced. “I want to hear my princess beg for it.”
“I don’t beg,” I manage, and the breathless defiance of it earns me a dark laugh against my shoulder blade that I feel in my marrow.
“You will.”
He pushes in another inch, then stops.
My fingers claw the sheets. A whimper climbs my throat, and I swallow it whole, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Another inch and stop.
“Aric—” His name comes out strangled.
“That’s not begging.” His thumb strokes a maddening circle on my hip like he could stay here forever, feeding me fractions of himself while I come apart at the seams. “Try again.”
The bastard. The absolute, insufferable arsehole.
“Please.” The word rips out of me. “Please, Aric—”
He thrusts into me, the force of it drives me forward, my arms giving out entirely, my face pressing into the mattress as my body absorbs the impact of him—every inch, every devastating thickness—sheathed inside me in one brutal stroke.
The sheets muffle the cry that tears from my throat, and his hand tightens in my hair and pulls, arching my spine, lifting my face from the mattress until my sounds fill the room with nothing to absorb them.
“I said I wanted to hear you.” He withdraws slowly until I feel the ridge of him dragging against my walls, and then drives back in with a force that makes the headboard crack against the wall again.
I surrender completely, lose myself in this maddening feeling, scream and moan and don’t care.
He has stripped me of every defense, every mask, every carefully constructed layer of composure I’ve worn since the day I was old enough to understand that princesses don’t scream, don’t beg, don’t fall apart at the hands of dangerous men.
I am doing all three, and I don’t want to stop.
His pace is relentless. Each thrust is measured, angled, deliberately aimed at the spot inside me that makes my vision white out, and he hits it with a precision that tells me this man knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You feel what you do to me?” He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth at my ear, and the weight of him—the sheer, overwhelming size of him covering me—makes me feel simultaneously devoured and protected in a way I will never be able to explain to another living soul.
“You feel how hard you make me? How fucking deep I need to be inside you?”
I moan and push back against him, meeting his next thrust with a roll of my hips that makes him growl a sound ripped straight from something that has nothing to do with the composed man I married and everything to do with the creature I’ve unleashed from beneath the ice.
His hand releases my hair and clamps around my throat instead, fingers curved around the column of my neck, thumb resting against my pulse point where my heartbeat hammers against his skin.
He pulls me upright until my back is flush against his chest, and in this position—kneeling, impaled, held by the throat while he drives into me from behind—I am completely and utterly his.
“This is mine.” He thrusts deep, punctuating the claim.
“All of it.” Another thrust, harder, his grip on my throat tightening just enough for the edges of my vision to soften.
“Your body.” His teeth sink into the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
“Your sounds.” Another thrust that punches a cry from my chest. “Every orgasm your body has left to give.” He releases my throat, grips my jaw instead, and turns my face toward his—our mouths almost touching, our breath the same shattered thing.
“Mine. Do you understand?” he says against my lips in that ruined, gravelly voice, and it does something to me that should be criminal.
“Yes,” I gasp, and the word tastes like surrender, like freedom, like damnation and salvation all at once.
Heat detonates at the base of my spine and spreads through my belly, my thighs, my chest, building with a speed and intensity that overwhelms me.
He drives deeper, harder, his arm banding around my waist to hold me against him while his hips snap forward at a pace designed to shatter. “Come for me. Come on my cock like you were made for it because you were, Ayanna. You were fucking made for me.”
The orgasm tears through me, wave after wave after wave of convulsions so violent that my body locks rigid against his, every muscle seizing, a scream ripping from my throat.
He holds me through it, and I feel him lose himself inside me at the same moment, his hips stuttering, a guttural sound tearing from his chest that I feel reverberate through my ribs, through my spine, through every wrecked and trembling cell.