The room is silent except for the rhythm of our bodies joined together. The sensual sounds of wet skin smacking. My arousal. Our breaths. The bed. A melody of sex and discovery.
He rests back on his haunches, watching where our bodies are joined. I’m entranced too, but my eyes watch him. How his hands roam and touch my body. How his incredible muscles flex and work. So much strength. Being intimate with a man really reveals how powerful they are, and I can feel it in his every thrust, even though he’s holding back. At least I think he is.
Which is good, because he is bigger than I expected. Much bigger.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but he isn’t hurrying and I am grateful for that. Every stroke is achingly purposeful and unrushed. Even when he moves faster, he chooses specific angles, moves my body just so, and he watches with intent. He wants to see my reaction to everything he does. It makes me feel safe and taken care of in a rather scary and new experience.
The moment he cums, he freezes and exhales a husky groan that is now forever burned in my memory. He collapses on me, his hard, sculpted body slick with sweat and heat. It’s incredible. I hope I did well. Did I?
Without a frame of reference, I ignore that thought — for now.
I want a kiss, and I take it from him, forcing his mouth on mine. I kiss him deep and with all the passion I am feeling.
Our lips part and he rises, slow and cautious. I sit up on my elbows, fairly disoriented as I watch him dress.
I whisper through the fog, voice small. “Thank you. For my first time.”
His eyes flicker with something raw — longing or fear, I can’t tell — before it shutters away.
He stands straight and looks at me, like I’m a riddle he can’t solve. I see the fatigue in his eyes. He’s not spiraling, but he’s not at peace. This isn’t a new problem. His madness must be as real and constant as the physical world.
That’s when I realize he didn’t marry me for intimacy, love, or even companionship. It must be purely political.
Unfortunately for his plans, there’s something broken in him, and I feel drawn to it. I have to get closer, because whatever just happened, was better than anything I hoped for. Even as he leaves my room without even a goodbye, I don’t feel discouraged.
I’m still shaking. Still in a state of euphoria and shock. A pathetic mess he left in damp sheets. I shouldn’t want him.I shouldn’t crave this. But my heart, and certainly my body, doesn’t care what I should feel.
I want him.
Chapter 16
Peighton
Warmth.
The first thing I notice is the warmth. A soft, luxurious blanket cocooned around me. Heavy. Expensive. Comforting in a way nothing about this castle should ever feel.
I blink awake slowly, stretching into the softness.
This isn’t my blanket.
He covered me. He must have come back while I slept.
Gustav Sokolov, mad king of this frozen fortress, tucked a blanket around my sleeping body like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I lie there a moment longer, letting the scent of him on the fabric lull me. It smells like cedar and something darker. Something so wonderfully him.
Eventually, I sit up, blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak, and wander toward the window, noticing movement outside.
Smoke curls past the glass.
At first, I think the ice garden is somehow on fire, but as I step closer, pressing a palm against the cold pane, my breath catches.
Below, on the snow-dusted courtyard—
Gustav stands beside a burning car. The car the Morozov men arrived in.
Four bodies lie on the ground, already stiff, already blackening at the edges from the flames.
