His mouth drops to my throat, lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. I tip my head back automatically, offering him access, and feel his satisfaction pulse through our connection.
"That's my good girl," he murmurs against my skin, the praise sending warmth spiraling through me. "Always so responsive for me."
His teeth graze the column of my throat, not quite biting, just promising. The gentle scrape makes me gasp, hands fisting in his shirt to keep myself upright. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hypersensitive to his touch.
"I want you," he says simply, breath hot against my neck.
"I want you too," I breathe, the admission torn from me by the intensity of sensation flooding through our bond.
He pulls back to look at me, eyes blazing with something between hunger and possessiveness. "No, little thief. You don't understand." His voice drops to a whisper that somehow sounds more dangerous than a shout. "I want you in my bed. In my arms. Screaming my name while I take you apart piece by piece."
My breath hitches, thighs clenching involuntarily at the dark promise in his words. Through our bond, I can feel the depth of his need—not just physical, but emotional. He wants to claim me completely, to erase any doubt about where I belong.
"I want you sharing my room," he continues, each word delivered with deliberate intensity. "Not down the hall where I have to imagine what you're doing. I want you close enough to touch whenever I need you."
"Yes," I gasp without hesitation. The thought of sleeping in his bed, of being truly his in every way that matters, sends excitement racing through me. "Yes to all of it."
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face at my eager agreement. "Such an agreeable little thief tonight," he murmurs, then leans down to press his mouth to the sensitive juncture where my neck meets my shoulder.
His teeth sink into the tender skin there, not hard enough to break the surface but deep enough to leave a mark. I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning, the sharp pleasure-pain of it making my vision blur at the edges. Through our bond, I feel his satisfaction at marking me, his possessive pleasure at seeing his claim on my skin.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, voice muffled but no less intense for it.
Before I can respond, his hands slide down to grip my ass, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make me gasp. Then he's lifting me, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he pins me more firmly against the wall.
The new position puts us at eye level, and I can see the barely controlled hunger in his expression. His pupils are blown wide with desire, and when he speaks, his voice carries the gravelly undertone that means his control is fraying.
"Hold on to me," he commands, and I obey without question, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He carries me down the hallway with steady, measured steps that belie the urgency I can feel thrumming through our connection. Each movement rocks me against him slightly, friction that makes us both tense with want. By the time we reach his room, I'm practically vibrating with need.
The door swings shut behind us with a soft click, and then he's laying me out on his massive bed like I'm something precious. The black linens feel cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the fire in his eyes as he looks down at me.
"The bruises on your skin are fading," he observes, voice carrying a note of displeasure that makes my pulse spike. Hisfingers trace the barely visible marks on my throat from that night at Vestige. "I don't like that."
The possessiveness in his tone, the way he's cataloguing the evidence of his claim on my body, makes heat surge through me. Through our bond, I can feel his satisfaction at my response, the way my arousal feeds his own.
"I want you marked always," he continues, golden eyes fixed on mine with predatory intensity. "I want everyone who looks at you to know exactly who you belong to."
My thighs clench at his words, and I have to fight to keep my voice steady when I speak. "Then mark me."
22
HEIDI
My breath catches in my throat as I watch his eyes darken at my words. The fire in his gaze promises exactly what I'm asking for—possession, pain, pleasure all wrapped together in a way that only he can deliver.
"Such a perfect little masochist," he murmurs, voice rough with approval. "Always so eager for what I want to give you."
His hands move to the laces of my festival dress, fingers working with deliberate slowness that makes me squirm beneath his attention. The fabric loosens inch by torturous inch, each brush of his knuckles against my skin sending sparks of electricity through me.
"Patience, little thief," he says when I try to arch up into his touch. "I want to savor this."
The dress slides off my shoulders, pooling around my waist as he exposes my breasts to the flickering firelight. His eyes drink in the sight of me like a man dying of thirst, and through our bond I feel the surge of possessive hunger that crashes through him.
"Beautiful," he breathes, voice carrying reverent undertones that make my chest tight. "You have no idea how often I've pictured you like this."
His palms cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples that tighten instantly under his touch. The gentle caress is almost too much after the intensity of anticipation, and I can't stop the soft whimper that escapes my lips.
