He continues his descent, his lips a slow, torturous path over the soft plane of my stomach. I am writhing beneath him, my hands struggling against his grip, not to escape, but from a desperate, overwhelming need for more. My mind is screaming one word:please.
And then, he is there.
His breath is a hot whisper against my core, a promise of the torment to come. He looks up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire from between my thighs. The sight is so raw, so intimate, it sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through me. He sees me. All of me. And he is about to take what is his.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock. It is slow, deliberate, a single, sweeping stroke that sets my entire body on fire. It is a conquest, a tasting, a claiming. Then he feasts. He is relentless, a master of this dark art, his lips and tongue working in a rhythm that is both punishing and divine.He teases, he torments, he pushes me to the very edge of a precipice, only to pull back, making me cry out with frustrated need.
"Tell me what you want, Wynter," he growls, the vibration of his words against my most sensitive flesh making me gasp.
I try to form the words, but my throat is tight with a pleasure so intense it is its own form of pain. I can only manage a choked, desperate sob.
"No," he commands, his teeth grazing my inner thigh. "Words. I want to hear you beg for it."
"You," I finally gasp, the word torn from me. "I want you."
His answering growl is one of pure, possessive victory. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue circling the tight, aching bundle of nerves, his name a silent prayer on my lips. He pushes a finger inside me, then another, stretching me, preparing me, curling them against a spot that makes my vision white out. The dual sensation is too much. The pleasure builds, a tidal wave, a storm, an avalanche gathering force deep within me. It coalesces, a white-hot star of pure energy, and then it shatters.
A scream is ripped from my lungs as my orgasm crashes through me, a violent, consuming wave that obliterates everything. My back arches off the bed, a taut bow of pure sensation, my hands straining against his unyielding grip. I am lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure, my body convulsing, my mind a white, silent void.
As the last tremors subside, he releases my hands and moves over me, covering my body with his. His lips claim mine in a deep, possessive kiss, and I can taste myself on him, the musky, intimate flavor of my own surrender. He positions himself between my thighs, the heavy, hard length of him pressing against my entrance.
He holds my gaze, his eyes dark and intense, a silent question passing between us. There is no need for words. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me, a silent, willing invitation.
With a single, powerful thrust, he enters me.
There is no pain this time. There is only a deep, stretching fullness, a feeling of completeness, of finally being whole. He ishome. He is the key to a lock I didn't know I had. He pauses for a moment, letting me adjust, letting me feel the reality of him inside me. Then he begins to move.
"You are mine," he pants, his breath hot against my skin.
"I know," I answer, my hips arching up to meet his next, slow thrust.
It is a brutal, beautiful dance. Every movement is a claim, every touch a brand. He moves with a relentless, worshipful rhythm, his eyes locked on mine, watching as the pain from the wound and the pleasure of his possession war on my face. He whispers praises and dark promises against my skin, calling me his queen, his artist, his beautiful, perfect monster.
And I am lost. I am a tempest of sensation, consumed by the man who destroyed me and is now rebuilding me in his own image. The fire he spoke of ignites in my blood, a roaring inferno that burns away the last of my fear, leaving only a raw, desperate need.
My climax hits me like a lightning strike, a violent, shattering explosion that rips a scream from my throat. My name. He groans my name as he follows me over the edge, his own powerful release a final, shuddering brand on my soul.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, our bodies slick with sweat, the room silent save for our ragged breaths. He doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep inside me, his arm wrapped tightly around me, holding me to him.
This time, there are no tears. There is no shame. There is only the quiet, terrifying hum of a pact sealed in fire and flesh. He is my king. And I am, finally and irrevocably, his queen.
Forty Three
Wynter
Themorningafter.
I wake to the familiar weight of Kaden’s arm still draped possessively across my waist. My body aches, a symphony ofdelicious soreness that hums beneath my skin, a stark contrast to the sharp, insistent throb from my hip. The bandage is still there, a constant, physical reminder of the night’s brutal intimacy, but it no longer feels like a brand of shame. It feels like a badge. A mark of belonging.
I turn my head slightly, watching him sleep. His face, in repose, is less severe, almost boyish, yet the raw power that emanates from him even in slumber is undeniable. He is a force of nature, and I have chosen to stand in his storm.
My gaze drifts lower, over the expanse of his bare shoulder, down the powerful curve of his arm. Intricate black ink swirls across his skin, a tapestry of symbols and designs I've glimpsed before but never truly studied. A serpent, its scales impossibly detailed, coils around his bicep, its head poised to strike. Further down, a complex geometric pattern, sharp and precise, like a blueprint for something ancient and dangerous. And on his forearm, a single, stark raven, its wings spread wide in silent flight. Each line, each shadow, speaks of a history, a philosophy, a world far older and darker than my own.
The fear is not entirely gone. It flickers at the edges of my consciousness, a faint echo of the girl I used to be. But it is overshadowed by a new, exhilarating sense of purpose. He broke me, yes. But in breaking me, he shattered the fragile shell of my old life, and in its place, he has allowed something far more dangerous, far more powerful, to emerge.
I am no longer a victim. I am a weapon. And I am about to be unleashed.
