Tongue hesitantly meeting his, Brenya parted her lips further.
When he finally deepened the kiss, it wasn’t with force but with deliberate intention. Each stroke of his tongue against hersheightened her senses. Urged her to gasp into his mouth as his touch became real and the phantom cramping in her womb—Jacques’s rage manifested as physical torture—began dissolving.
The influence of the Alpha flickered like a dying candle flame, pushing him to the periphery, as Jules stole her breath.
Male fingers worked magic at her breast, kneading flesh, thumbing her nipple with precise pressure. Not too rough, not too gentle. Perfect circles that made her arch into his palm, whimpering when he pinched the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger.
A pinch that sparked a heartbeat between her legs, not the grinding agony of endless, empty orgasm.
“More,” she whispered against his lips, surprised by her own boldness.
And he gave it.
The bond,their bond, thrummed between them. Not carving out her insides as Jacques had done, but a conduit for pleasure, filling her with emptiness in which she had room tobe.
Moving her body against his with newfound hunger, Brenya’s body awakened to something unimaginable. She kissed him back with desperation, becauseshe wanted to. Tasting him, with tentative little licks. Then growing bolder, intoxicated, meeting the wet heat of his tongue in a dance that made her dizzy.
She moaned into his mouth, the sound raw and unfiltered. Her pebbled nipple throbbing at his touch, her other breast swollen and neglected.
Ending the kiss on his terms, Jules dragged her lower lip between his teeth before easing back just enough to see her eyes when he said it. “I love seeing you dressed in my clothes.”
He punctuated the confession with an exaggerated roll of his hips that had her hissing, mumbling distorted French in broken, clipped female pleadings as he worked her over with softly spoken words and clever fingers working to distract. “How yousteal my shirts, even after you have worn them, and hide them in your nest like I won’t notice. My good girl.”
The last sliver of sun vanished beyond the horizon, fire fading from the walls. Exactly as it should be. The only light he needed was hers.
It was almost time.
He’d tortured enough men and women to know when they reached that final moment of clarity. Where pain was transcended and ego dissolved. Watched hundreds suffer until their identity floated away. Their lies, their story, no longer relevant or necessary. A dissolving of character. The closest thing to true consciousness this side of death.
Where attachment to the one who broke them was inevitable.
And she wassoclose.
Each time Brenya’s breath hitched, her eyes unfocused briefly. Each time he gave her pleasure, and she tried to mentally float away, he dragged her right back, her gaze snapping to his face with desperation she didn’t understand.
A little more pain.
A little more pressure on her swollen clit when his fly caught on the cute little hood that offered her no protection from the coarseness of his trousers.
This wasn’t about sex, even if his hard meat was pressed to her leaking cunt… even if his hand pushed and molded the gentle swell of her breast.
The damp shirt she wore—his shirt—he slipped it like water down her arms, untangled the fabric from where it hung at her elbows, and left it to puddle on the floor. And then he had her, his Brenya, naked and wriggling in his lap, watching between their bodies to where his cock was not inside her… but should be.
Far below them, Jacques climaxed again. She arched, spine bowing from a cramp that stole her breath. Elbows catchingbehind her to brace herself, chest high, breasts heaving, thighs spread wide over his hips.
Running his palm slowly down the trembling plane of her belly, Beta fingers teased, Brenya drunk on scent and sensation, caught in pain and pleasure. So deeply in need that, had he been a malevolent man, exploiting her for his gain would have been laughably fun.
But this was not about his desires.
“That’s it,” Jules murmured, bright blue eyes catching the last of the dying light, transforming them into something otherworldly. “Feel how perfectly you fit against me.”
Hair clung to her temples and neck, damp with exertion as Jules orchestrated her indulgence, laying her down as he directed, guided, unspooled her spine until her back kissed the blood-red floor.
Soft parted thighs locked around his waist, cunt—slick and flushed—cradled the clothed length of him. He followed her down like a tide pulling wreckage into deeper waters, until she was flat on her back and he was braced above her. Fully dressed and hard, grinding into the heat of her need, giving her enough friction to keep her teetering on the edge. ravaged in ways she would never understand, picked apart, put back together, hollow, malleable, and razor sharp.
Her mind was wide open to him, pupils so big there was only a sliver of honey at the edge.
The exact moment Brenya realized he had her on the ground, pinned, perhaps moments away from penetration, fear bloomed in those honey-brown eyes. Pupils contracted, her breath caught.
