My life.
She’s everything.
And she’smine.
Chapter 20
Leena
Imight have said that I don’t know what love is, but I also know that my heart isn’t mine anymore. It’s been torn from my chest and sewn up into the much bigger, harder, streamlined muscle and bone of the man beside me.
A man whose arms wrap around me and haul me up against his chest, lashing us together so tight that it hurts, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“You see me,” he says, his breath wafting against my lips. “You see all of me and you can’t look away.”
“I can,” I groan, nipping at his bottom lip frantically. “But I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”
I twine my arms around his neck, locking my fingers at the base of his skull. My breasts are sore, tender, the nipples hard little points beading into his chest. It doesn’t matter that there are clothes between us. We might as well be naked. I feel starved. Starved for him. Starved for his kisses. If my heart is torn out and stitched up inside of him, then he’s been cut up just as brutally, those aching pieces of him glued back together in my chest.
He bites down hard on my bottom lip then laps at the sting with his broad, firm tongue. He sweeps his tongue into my mouth and strokes mine hard before sucking at my lips until I’m forced to surrender to him.
His hands sweep to my waist and trail a scalding line down to my ass. He cups me there, and the heat of him swells through me, even through my pajama shorts. His other hand remains tangled in my hair possessively as his lips trail down over my chin, my jaw, my throat. He sucks my skin into his mouth, bruising it between his teeth and lips before he licks my collarbones above my tank top. He doesn’t stop there. His hand kneads the flesh of my ass while his mouth claims my breast, latching onto my nipple and suckling it into his mouth, shirt and all.
I moan and my hips jack forward, searching for him under the sheet. He still has his jeans on, which makes it pretty obvious that he wasn’t planning on getting any real sleep tonight, and I rub myself shamelessly against his leg, dry humping him like we’re both half a decade younger, crazed with hormones and lust.
Wraith’s hand parts my legs as I shift into him and without warning, his hand cups my sex. I groan and thrust my chest forward, into his beautiful mouth. He nips me before tearing my shirt down lower and claiming my other breast, this time, blissfully, without the barrier of fabric between us.
His hand pulls down my shorts, and his talented fingers caress me, sending wicked heat coursing through my veins. He breaks me with his gentle touches, stitches me back up when he sweeps a finger over my swollen folds and dips it inside my aching sex. I whimper, low and long in my throat when he pops his finger into his mouth. His eyes darken as he sucks his finger.
Sweet lord.
Watching him do things like that, hearing the sounds of satisfaction rumble up from his chest- it makes me throb harder. Heat floods my body and wetness sluices down my thighs.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” Wraith groans as he slides his finger out from his lips. “My face buried between your legs, tasting you?”
I buck into him, unable to control myself. I can feel the throbbing hardness of his erection jammed into my stomach despite its tight denim confines and knowing that it’s me that does that to him is like getting drunk on strong wine.
I want that. I want the pleasure but I’m okay with the pain too. I want him inside of me, filling me up with every thick, veiny inch of his cock. I need him with every fiber of my being.
“You’re gonna be sore,” he growls against my lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Please.Please, Wraith. I need you. I need you inside of me. I need you with me. Here. I need you thrusting into me, joining us. Please make me yours.”
He tenses against me, but he lets out a ragged breath a second later. “Alright,” he growls against my lips.
I nearly cry out when he slides away from me, but then I realize that Abby is still at the foot of the bed.
Wraith scoops her up in his strong arms and cradles her gently against his chest. She’s fast asleep, and barely stirs as he carries her out of the room. I hear his footsteps echo down the hall, into the kitchen where her big, round, soft bed is.
My skin prickles with goosebumps when those steps get closer, soft, barefoot treads that might as well be loud cracks of thunder. He shuts the door firmly behind him and my whole body vibrates with a shiver that threads its way down my spine.
Wraith stops. It’s dark in the room, but his eyes aren’t just black with it. They’re heavy lidded and glazed over with hunger. He slowly strips away his t-shirt, a soft rasp that echoes like a breeze in the room. I watch the ripple of muscle, the bunch and curl of his shoulders, his pecs, his ridged abs, as he bends and deftly undoes his jeans. He pushes them and his boxers down his legs and steps from them, standing proudly, wondrously, all male, a statue brought to life.
“Beautiful,” I breathe, taking him in.
I drink in every bronzed bit of skin. The striated, elongated paths that his muscles take below that bronzed velvet surface. The smattering of dark hairs over his chest, the hard, brown nipples, the curl of hair at his navel that trails lower to surround his massive cock, so thick and veiny standing straight up against his stomach, the tip an obvious angry red even in the dark. I force myself to tear my eyes away, to let them linger over legs that are as brutally strong and wonderfully built as the rest of him. A surge of protectiveness mixes with the heat in my chest.
We might have just met, but every love story—whether it be the stuff of legend or ballad, or the kind that endures an entire lifetime, has a beginning.
