He talks some more. And his words are—well they’re asinine.
He wants to own me. And it should piss me off.
Instead, it turns me molten.
He strokes himself, slow and filthy, and I can’t look away. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his stomach flexing as his hand moves.
His eyes are locked on mine, dark and hungry and worshiping like he’s going to devour me whole.
Then he’s there, dragging me to the edge of the bed and thrusting into me in one glorious, soul-shattering stroke.
I scream—half ecstasy, half shock—and my fingers claw at the sheets.
He fills me.
Stretches me.
Fucks me like I’m his religion and he’s been praying to my body for a thousand years.
My back arches.
My nails drag across his skin.
I moan his name like it’s the only word I’ve ever known.
And he gives me more.
More depth.
More fury.
More devotion—carved into every thrust like he's inscribing his name on my soul.
Each time he moves inside me, he’s rewriting something I thought I understood about myself.
About sex. About power. About surrender.
His praises punch through me.
Low and rough and reverent.
Good girl.
So tight.
So fucking perfect.
Every thrust unravels me completely until I’m not sure where I end and he begins. Until I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice anymore—wrecked and desperate and raw.
And maybe it’s just sex.
Maybe I’m being a fool.
Maybe he’s done this a hundred times with a hundred women whose names he never bothered to remember.
But God help me, I don’t think so.
I don’t know what I did to compel such a reaction from this man—this prince with ice in his eyes and iron in his voice—but I know I am here for it.
