Her hazel eyes searched his face. “Damon, I want you.”
Those simple words. They shattered his last remaining restraint.
He didn’t speak. Words had never been his strength; action was. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her from his lap as he stood in one fluid motion. She gasped, her arms looping around his neck, as he carried her from the dining room.
The corridors of his childhood home were a blur of memory and present need. He brought her to his old private chambers, the room he’d claimed for his stay—a space haunted by a ghost of the man he used to be. The threat of Veyrik’s retaliation lingered at the edges of his awareness, a dark cloud on the horizon. But Isla had told him to focus on the present, and for once, he obeyed. There was only the weight of her in his arms, the scent of her skin, and the driving need to be closer.
He shouldered the door open, kicked it shut behind them, and crossed to the massive four-poster bed. He laid her down on the deep blue coverlet with a reverence that felt foreign after a century of withdrawal. His dragon thrashed beneath his skin, demanding he rush, claim, and mark. The primal instinct to seal their mate bond irrevocably was an incessant drumbeat in his blood.
No.
The thought was a steel bar across his impulses. He would not rush and he would not mark her until she asked for it, until she chose the bond with clear eyes and a full heart. He could feel the mate bond thrumming between them, a live wire of connection, but she wasn’t ready to fully commit. She was, however, leaning into the possibility, and that was enough for now.
He lay down beside her, propped on an elbow, and just looked. Moonlight streamed through the windows, painting her skin in silver.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words rough with emotion.
He leaned in to kiss her again, a slow and deep kiss that made her arch against him. Her hands went to the hem of his black shirt, tugging impatiently. He broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside. Her gaze raked over his torso—the broad chest, the ridges of muscle, the faint scars that mapped a history of violence. Her fingertips traced one silvery line along his ribcage, and he shuddered.
“My turn,” he growled softly, his hands finding the straps of her coral sundress.
He peeled the soft fabric down her body with deliberate slowness, revealing inch after inch of creamy skin until she lay in only a scrap of white lace. Then he kissed the hollow of her throat, the slope of her shoulder, and the gentle swell of her breasts.
“Damon,” she breathed, her back arching.
He took his time, lavishing attention on each breast, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they were tight peaks. Her gasps and soft pleas were a symphony. The mate bond roared between them, amplifying every sensation, making her pleasure echo through his own body until he was throbbing with a need so sharp it was pain.
“More,” she begged, her hands fisting in his hair.
He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties and drew them down her legs, tossing them aside. Then she was bare, gloriously open to him. He took a moment to simply drink in the sight. The curve of her hips, the dip of her navel, and the auburn curls between her thighs.
Mine. Claim her now.
He settled between her thighs, and the scent of her arousal—sweet and musky—hit him with physical force. His control strained. A century of self-denial, of viewing pleasure as adistraction he couldn’t afford, had left him starving. His body was a tense bowstring in this moment, his cock hard and aching against the confines of his pants. Every instinct screamed to take and to bury himself in her heat.
But this was her first time with him. She was just beginning to trust him. He would not be another man who took without giving.
He lowered his head and licked a slow, deliberate stripe through her folds. She cried out, her hips jerking against him. He did it again, learning her taste, her textures, the precise spot that made her thighs tremble. He focused all his centuries of discipline on this one task: her pleasure.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying rhythmic pressure with his tongue, and her moans turned into a broken chant of his name. One hand tangled in his hair, not pushing, but holding on as if she were adrift. He slid two fingers inside her, finding her wet and tight, and curled them.
“There,” she gasped when he found the spot. “Oh, yes, right there.”
He worked his fingers in a steady, driving rhythm, his mouth never leaving her. He was a general commanding her pleasure, relentless and focused. The sounds she made, the way her inner muscles clenched around his fingers, the taste of her climax building—it was the most powerful thing he’d ever experienced.
Her climax hit suddenly. Her legs locked around his head, her whole body bowing off the bed as a ragged scream tore from her throat. He felt her convulse around his fingers, wave after wave of sensation that pulsed through the mate bond and slammed into him with shared intensity. He rode it out with her, gentling his touch until the last tremors subsided.
TWENTY
DAMON
Before she’d fully come down, she was moving. She pushed at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back, and then her clever hands were at the fastening of his khaki pants. He helped her, shoving them and his boxers down his legs in a frantic tangle.
Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him—fully aroused, thick and straining with need. She’d seen him naked earlier, but not like this. Not hard and desperate for her.
She leaned down, kissing his chest and his abdomen, her hair trailing over his skin like fire. And then her mouth was on his cock, taking him deep, and Damon saw stars.
Her mouth was hot, wet, impossibly skilled. She explored him with a bold curiosity that stole his breath. His hips jerked involuntarily, and he fisted his hands in the coverlet, gritting his teeth. Pleasure, raw and unchecked, rocketed through him. A century of denial made the sensation unbearably acute; he was hurtling toward the edge with terrifying speed.
