He obeyed. He lifted me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and the friction of him, hard and hot andheavy against my damp center, made my vision blur. Then magic poured from us, a visual testament to the havoc wreaking my insides. As Fenrik’s palms swept down the curve of my spine, settling heavy and claiming on my hips, liquid gold bled from my pores. It swirled with the quicksilver rising from his own skin, the two colors meeting and tangling, illuminating the shadows of the room with a glow that matched the frantic beat of my heart. I was burning with a need that made my thighs tremble against his waist.
But just as I arched into him, desperate for friction, Fenrik froze.
His fingers dug into my waist, bruisingly tight, halting us. He pulled back, his chest heaving. He looked down at me, at the way I was wrapped around him.
“Lysa, stop.” His voice was a low grind of gravel.
“Don’t stop,” I gasped, trying to pull him back, but he was immovable, a statue of tension.
“Look at you,” he roughly whispered, one hand leaving my hip to trail down my stomach, stopping maddeningly short of where I ached. “You are new to this. And I am...” He hissed a breath through his teeth, looking at the hardened length of himself pressed against my belly. “I have little control left, Lysa.”
“I don’t care,” I said, the words jagged.
“You should.” His gaze snapped to mine. “I know you are untouched. I know you have never had a man between your legs. I can smell that.”
Heat that had nothing to do with magic scorched my face, but I didn’t look away. How on earth could he smell that? “Does that matter?”
“It matters,” he said. “Because it is going to hurt. I am going to tear a membrane. There will be blood.” His nostrils flared, pupils dilating until the grey was almost swallowed by black. “I have never taken a virgin. I do not know what my beast will do when it smells your blood. I am afraid I won’t stop. I am afraid the pain will only make me want to drive deeper.”
The brutality of his words should have frightened me. It made my womb clench though, a heavy, wet pulse that soaked the fabric of my underwear. I felt wanton, wicked, and entirely unsure of what I was doing, yet my body moved with an instinct I hadn’t learned in any book.
“You won’t hurt me,” I whispered. “You’ll fill me.”
I reached down between our bodies. I took his wrist and dragged his hand lower.
He resisted for a heartbeat, but I guided his hand over the mound of my sex, pressing his palm flat against the soaked linen.
A groan tore out of him, raw and animalistic. The gold and silver light flared blindingly bright where we touched, warming the slick heat between my legs.
“Feel that,” I murmured, my hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. I interlaced my fingers with his, pressing him harder against my aching center, showing him the damp evidence of my need. “I am ready.”
“You are drowning,” he choked out, as he rubbed the heel of his hand against my clitoris through the thin fabric.
“I am not afraid of your hunger, Fenrik. I have my own.”
“Open,” he said. “Let me see.”
I shoved my soaked trousers down my thighs, kicking them away until I stood bare before him, shivering from exposure. I planted my feet on the rich carpet and spread my legs, just enough.
Fenrik released a sound that was half-prayer, half-growl.
“Mine,” he snarled. He swept me up into his arms, carrying me to the massive bed as if I weighed nothing more than a bird. He laid me down against the silk sheets reverently. The mattress dipped as he crawled over me, his beast fully present in the silver glow of his eyes, spreading my knees wide with his elbows until I was laid open to him.
His mouth descended, hot and wet, mapping the hollow of my throat before trailing lower. He tasted the slope of my breast, his tongue swirling over the peak until I arched off the mattress, a keen of need ripping from my throat. My magic, usually a force of silence and suppression, flooded my veins. The gold light of my gift saturated my system, stripping away all the fear and hesitation, amplifying every slide of his tongue into a lash of pure sensation.
“Fenrik,” I gasped, my head thrashing on the pillows. “Please.”
He ignored my begging, his mouth moving lower, over my ribs, kissing the fluttering pulse in my stomach. His hand moved between my legs, parting the slick, swollen folds of my sex.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice a rough vibration against my belly. His thumb brushed my clit, and I screamed. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I choked out, my hips bucking instinctively into his palm. “I need you inside.”
He watched my face, his pupils blown so wide the grey was swallowed by black hunger. “Open,” he whispered again, and then he pushed two large fingers inside me.
The stretch was shocking, a sharp, stinging burn as he breached the barrier of my hymen. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders, but the pain was chased by the overwhelming fullness of him. He was thick, calloused, and relentless. He held still for a heartbeat, letting me adjust, letting my body sheath him tight, before he began to curl his fingers, pumping into me with a rhythm that scraped against the most sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside.
“You are so wet for me, Lysa.”
