“Go hunt a dust bunny,” he instructs.
The flickering light from the screen casts shadows across Slade’s face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the depth of those impossible green eyes. He shifts, pulling me closer until my hip is pressed tight against his hard thigh. The casual contact is anything but. The domestic calm cracks between us, like a dam about to burst.
He doesn’t look away from the TV, but his thumb begins tracing slow, deliberate circles into the soft skin of my inner thigh, just beneath the hem of his shirt.
My breath hitches. I know this game. The waiting, that slow, intense build up that's always worth it a million times over.
“You’re enjoying this film, aren’t you, little witch?” he asks, his voice smooth and deceptively mild.
“No,” I manage, my entire focus centering on the heat his touch is generating.
His hand stops, then his fingers curl slightly, finding the sensitive skin at my hip. He finallylooks at me, his eyes suddenly depthless and focused entirely on possession. The soft light of the reruns on the TV makes the moment feel stolen and illicit.
“Tell me what you’d rather be doing,” he challenges, his thumb pressing lightly into my flesh, demanding an answer.
I bite my lip, leaning into his ear, my voice thick. “I’d rather you remind me who I belong to,Lord Athalar.”
That’s all the invitation he needs. The demon breaks containment, and I know it’s over for me.
Slade rolls onto me, pinning me to the cushions. The sound of the TV vanishes, and all that’s left is us.
He captures my mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, pushing me further into the yielding foam of the sofa. This isn’t the loving kiss from yesterday. No, this is a demand, rough and immediate. I cling to his shoulders, feeling the power in his grip, the absolute authority of his body over mine.
He tears his mouth away, stripping the borrowed shirt from my body and tossing it somewhere behind the sofa. The air in the room is suddenly hot. His hands are everywhere, rough and practiced, reminding me exactly what it means to be claimed by something ancient and powerful.
He yanks my leggings down, disposing of them quickly, his eyes never leaving mine. I see the hunger there, the need to take and control. He is already hard, a perfect, wicked ridge against my stomach.
“I own this view, witch,” he growls, his voice lower than a Ninth Realm threat. He braces his elbows on either side of my head, locking me in place.
I answer by bucking up against him, demanding release.
He smiles—a sharp, triumphant flash of white—and ignores my frantic movements. He runs a single finger down my folds, slow andagonizing, until he finds the wet, aching center of my need.
He doesn’t use his fingers the way I might, gentle and seeking pleasure. He uses them to claim. His hand clamps down, firm and dominating, pressing harder against my clit.
“You won’t rush me,” he dictates. “You’ll take exactly what I choose to give you, when I choose to give it. Nod for me, Piper. Show me you understand.”
I nod immediately, a frantic little jerk of my head, entirely submitting to his will. The dominance heightens the raw, immediate pleasure to an unbearable pitch. I’m panting already, salivating at the thought of what he’s about to do to me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. And the praise? The control? It’s better than any foreplay.
He shifts, tearing open his own pants and kicking them aside. Then he’s over me, his weight settling against mine, his dark green eyes burningwith desire. He positions himself, pressing his thick, throbbing length against my pussy.
Slade doesn't hesitate. He drives into me with a single, powerful thrust that steals the air from my lungs and forces a silent scream from my throat. My hands instantly fly to his back, gripping him tightly, accepting the full depth of his authority.
He starts moving, the pace slow and brutal, designed to push me to the edge of sensory overload without letting me cross it. He watches my face, watching the pleasure—and the absolute surrender—flash in my eyes.
“Are youmine, Piper?” he demands, his voice a vibrating threat near my ear.
“Yes,” I gasp, the word ripped from my chest.
He rewards me with a punishing, desperate series of thrusts, taking me higher and harder until the living room is filled with the sounds of our heavy breathing and the rhythmic creak of the old sofa. I reach my climax in a blinding, silent rush,clawing his shoulders as my body arches high off the cushions.
Slade follows immediately, groaning my name as he buries himself in a final, heavy plunge.
We lay there, utterly spent, breathing each other in. The sounds of the fuzzy reruns play softly in the background, a ridiculous soundtrack to the passionate wreckage we’ve made of the living room. Newt has returned, settling on the ottoman, observing the proceedings with judgmental curiosity.
Slade presses a gentle kiss to my temple, the dark green in his eyes softened by a deep, satisfied warmth.
