I threw my head back, offering him everything, and felt the smirk against my skin before his lips traveled lower to the swell of my breast. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I cried out, my fingers fisting in his hair.
His tongue circled the taut peak before he drew it between his teeth, sucking hard enough to blend pleasure and pain into one devastating sensation. And when he bit down, I nearly cameapart. He lavished attention on one breast until I was trembling, then moved to the other with the same fierce possessiveness, his hand tracing down to knead my clit.
I cried out in pleasure. He made me burn. Only for him. Always for him.
It was a sweet agony, and I needed more.
“Please,” I gasped, rolling my hips against his hardness.
“Use your words, baby,” he commanded. “Please, what?”
“You know what I want!”
He chuckled, the sound purring against my skin. “I like hearing you say it. I like to hear my woman beg before she screams.”
“Enough with the slow burn,” I demanded. “Just fuck me already! Fuck me like I’m your whore! There, I said it.”
In bed, dignity was old clothes.
“Are you my whore, then, little scorpion?”
“Just as you’re mine, snowflake.”
He let out a low, sensual laugh. “Mm, I’ll have to serve you properly, mistress.”
The thick head of his cock brushed against my entrance. I gasped; he groaned at the delicious contact. We’d done this many times, yet every time felt like the first—that overwhelming rush of rightness, of coming home, of searing want. I could never get enough of this. Neither could he.
He pushed in slowly, stretching me inch by exquisite inch. That first, deep thrust always stole my breath, the overwhelming sensation of anticipation, heat, heaviness, and completion.
“I never thought I could have this,” I whispered, fighting the sting behind my eyes. “This day. With you. A happy ending. I always thought I was living on borrowed time.”
“You never need to worry about that again, little scorpion.” He pressed his forehead to mine, his breath ghosting across my lips. “You and I are forever. Even after the stars fade, you’ll stillbe mine. You’re more than my heart; you’re everything to me. And I’m glad you crashed into my life and turned it all upside down. I love you with every broken piece of me.”
“But you aren’t broken,” I insisted. “Not one bit. Damaged men might be hot in dark romance novels, but that’s a fantasy. They’re no good in real life.” I traced the line of his jaw, a testament to his strength, not his damage.
He chuckled, a low, warm, and sensual sound that made me shiver with need. “And when did you become such an expert on men, baby?”
With a powerful thrust, he drove home. We both went still, him fully seated inside me, my molten core pulling him even deeper. This was one of those perfect moments—an amazing connection worth every hell we’d survived to reach.
He began to move, slowly at first, relishing me as if we had all the time in the world and no war left to fight. I sank my fingernails into his shoulders, arching into the exquisite stretch as the pressure began to build deep within.
Slowly, I moved with him in our primal dance, my pussy clenching around his silky, steel-hard length. A rough groan tore from his throat as I squeezed him tighter.
“Look at me, baby,” he ordered, his voice thick, when my eyes fluttered closed. “Let me see how good I make you feel.”
“You know it’s good,” I gasped, but I obeyed, opening my eyes to let him see the fire burning for him. I let him see how thoroughly he wrecked me, how every slow, deliberate drag of his cock rewired my nervous system, proving I was his, completely and irrevocably.
“That’s my girl,” he growled in dark satisfaction, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. The dual stimulation was fucking insane—the friction, the fullness, the pleasure short-circuiting my thoughts. My breath hitched, my legs jerked, and my entire body stiffened as a wave of sensation crested.
“Shit, Killian!” I breathed out, my thoughts scattering.
“What, baby?” His voice was a lazy, satisfied drawl.
“The pasta!” I cried, my domestic concerns slicing through the haze of pleasure. “You don’t want to overcook it, believe me!”
“I believe you,” he said, a chuckle rumbling through his chest.
“Youdoknow what you’re doing, right?” Uncertainty bled into my voice. “I want to host a cooking show in Mist of Cinder when the heirs return. You need to join the other heirs, or kings, in a cooking contest. Consider this your practice. I’d never live it down if you didn’t bring home the championship cup. I especially don’t want Rowan to win, or Sy will never stop gloating.”
