His hand slides between us. Finds where we’re joined. Touches my clit with sure strokes that make my back bow off the pallet.
“Come for me,” he says against my throat. “I want to feel it.”
The pleasure spikes. Sharp and sudden and almost too much.
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me with enough force to steal my breath. My body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and I hear myself cry out—his name, wordless sound, I don’t know.
He follows seconds later. His rhythm breaking. Thrusts becoming erratic as he buries himself deep.
His face presses into the crook of my neck. His breath hot against my skin. Body trembling as he spills inside me.
And then—
“Lyria.”
The name is hoarse. Breathless. Muffled by my hair.
But it’s not mine.
What the fuck?
Everything stops.
The warmth drains from my body, replaced by ice so cold it burns.
He called me Lyria.
Not Mara. Not even a slip of the tongue that could be laughed off.
Lyria.
Whoever the fuck that is.
K’s body is still trembling with aftershocks, face buried against my neck. He doesn’t realize what he said. Doesn’t know he just destroyed everything.
I push at his chest. “Get off.”
His head lifts. Confusion clouds his eyes. “Mara—?”
“Get. Off.”
He pulls back immediately, and I scramble out from under him. Grab the discarded shirt, yank it over my head with shaking hands.
“Mara, what—?”
“Who’s Lyria?” My voice cracks. “Who the fuck is Lyria?”
Understanding dawns in his expression. Then horror.
“I—” He reaches for me. “I did not mean—”
“Don’t.” I back away, arms wrapped around myself. “Don’t touch me.”
“Please. Let me explain—”
“Explain what?” Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “That you were thinking about someone else while you wereinside me? That I’m just a convenient substitute for whoever this Lyria is?”
