With a groan, I grind myself against him, needing relief from the ache in my core. Everything I’ve been through tonight is crashing down on me—all the rage and sadness—and I need this connection with Roman. This reaffirmation of the bond we formed in the Wilds.
The shower beats against my shoulders and back as Roman’s hands support me. My clit is swollen and throbbing and when my movement against him brings me into contact with his hard cock, I moan with need.
Roman’s throaty response is loud and deep, and before I can demand that he fuck me right now, he thrusts firmly, filling me in a dizzying wave of pleasure.
I grip his shoulders and give him complete control as he pulls out and slams into me again. And again. Over and over, this deliciously slow but powerful movement. He doesn’t rush it, taking his time to taste my lips with the same intensity as he dominates my body. Taking from me as much as he gives. I’m a mess by the time I start to tremble, no longer able to hold out from my impending orgasm.
I cry out when the energy in my center explodes and turns my body into a mass of molten pleasure. I push harder against him while Roman meets every single movement with one of his own. He draws out my orgasm for so long that by the time I return to reality, my head is spinning and my lungs ache from losing my breath.
He doesn’t stop there, keeping us joined. Turning toward the wall, he presses me against it so he can move his hands up to brace against the marble surface on either side of me. Even that movement triggers my core, ripples of pleasure beginning again, and I gasp, surprised.
My pleasure makes him growl, low and deep in his throat, his eyes completely black as he starts again.
This time, hard and fast, my orgasm beating through me so intensely that I’m crying out, overtaken by the pleasure that spirals through me, over and over.
I thought I understood the term multiple orgasms before this moment, but I had no idea. None at all.
As I come for what feels like the fiftieth time in as many seconds, Roman rumbles my name, buries his head in my neck, and gently bites the spot near my shoulder just as he crashes into me. The heat of his release pools in my center, and I slump bonelessly against him.
We remain tangled together for long seconds until Roman presses a small kiss against the spot he bit. He didn’t break my skin—he barely left a mark—but I feel the contact deep in my core.
“My wolf was killed, butthis—” He stops. “This was instinct.”
My own instincts are firing, my wolf’s energy rising. It feels like a long time ago on Earth that Roman told me our impulses can make us stronger, and sometimes we should give in to them.
My wolf’s growl fills my throat, and I lean forward, tasting his shoulder with my tongue, my teeth grazing against his skin, returning the gentlest of bites before I tip my head back and meet his eyes.
“Always follow your instincts,” I say, welcoming the heat in his eyes.
“Always,” he rumbles.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE
The lights spilling from the glittering ballroom are all but blinding when we step out of the elevator.
Roman is on my right, but I left my wolves in the bedroom upstairs after a difficult moment of indecision. Ace had growled—an angry snarl—making it clear he thought they should come with me. I could practically read his wish in his glowing violet eyes—that he, Temple, Luca, and Blitz should form a guard around me to keep the elites at bay. But I’m about to walk into a party attended by a hundred demons, all of whom cheered when Arga killed a demon wolf in the ring. Maybe it’s the aftereffects of the trial, or just instinct, but something tells me that my demon wolves are safer tonight away from this environment. Despite their strengths.
The rich, midnight-purple dress that Roman conjured for me swishes around my legs, concealing the fact that I’m wearing boots beneath it. If I need to move quickly for any reason, I don’t want to be wearing heels. Although Crone said that clothing would be provided, there was none in the room. I wasn’t entirely surprised, and I wouldn’t have trusted any garment she gave me anyway.
As we move into the hall outside the entrance, Roman continues filling me in on what to expect at the afterparty. “Only the most favored elites are allowed to attend. Crone will give a toast at some point,” he murmurs. “It’s to swear her allegiance to the winner, so you’ll have to take part in that. Otherwise, I won’t leave your side.”
Soldiers line the wall outside the room, all standing at attention. A sign at the top of the door is engraved with gold—a scrawling script that says:Pleasure.
I’m sure the moments ahead of me contain anything but pleasure.
Stepping inside, I’m immediately struck by the laughter and energy filling the room, an addictive buzz that I’m sure is intended to make everyone relax. It only sets me on edge.
The lights are so bright that the silhouettes of the demons in the room are blurred, and I’m forced to shut down my demon sight to try to counteract the stark brilliance surrounding me. At least a hundred elite demons are congregated inside, most drinking and laughing, some dancing to the slow beat of music that filters beneath their voices, the tangled sounds making my skin crawl.
Waist-high tables scattered around the room are covered in food of all kinds—from savory dishes with meat, vegetables, and pastries to pastel-colored foods that resemble sweets and cakes—a colorful array for every taste.
Four flowing fountains of sparkling liquid are set around the room, and I can only assume they’re streaming with some sort of alcohol. The demons congregating around the fountains fill their glasses to the brim, and when the bubbly liquid spills across their hands and arms, other demons lick the liquid off their skin. Curved couches surround each fountain and there are more couches lining the edges of the room. Some of the demons sitting in them are embracing, while others relax on their own, their eyes dazed—from alcohol, probably.
“Gluttony. Lust. Greed. Sloth,” Roman murmurs as his sharp gaze takes in the scene. “Demons enjoy all of the sins.”
“And here comes pride,” I say as Crone approaches from the far side, swathed in an ivory gown. I pause for her to reach us, but she veers to the left, joining Arga where he stands at a fountain with three women and a man. The man is plying Arga with drinks while the women stroke his arms and back, even his thighs, grinding their hips against him.
Ugh.
