It’s about devotion. About showing her, in every way my body can, what my words could never contain.
I answer her with my mouth, with my tongue, with every ounce of patience I can summon. Every stroke is deliberate, every caress meant to unravel her, to make her feel exactly what she is to me—everything.
I worship her until she’s writhing, the sheets twisting under her fists, her cries tearing through the air like music meant only for me. She gasps, she begs, her body arching off the bed as wave after wave crashes through her, and still I don’t stop.
Not when her voice breaks.
Not when her legs tremble around me.
Not until I’ve given her everything she can take, again and again, until she’s boneless, undone, trembling from the force of it.
Only then do I lift my head, breath ragged, lips wet with her, and think—finally, finally—of taking her for myself.
Only then, when she’s boneless beneath me, glowing like the very gods lit her from within, does the worship shift. Reverence gives way to hunger, patience to wildfire.
I claim her mouth, her body, all of her, and she meets me with equal ferocity. No hesitation. No restraint. Just us, colliding, consuming, burning until there’s nothing left but heat and the sound of our hearts beating like war drums.
And we burn.
39
MARCUS
Esmerelda is radiant beneath me, flushed and glowing, her skin slick, her body still trembling from everything I’ve already taken from her. She hums with it, spent but restless, sated yet greedy. Like me. Like neither of us could ever get enough. It feels like the memory of almost losing this, of almost losing us, drives us to make up for every moment we went without.
I should stop. Let her breathe. Let her rest.
But then she looks at me. And the way she looks at me is always going to be my undoing. Her eyes are heavy, lashes wet, lips parted, demanding. Not pleading. Not begging. Demanding. A queen who knows she’s mine, and knows exactly how to command me with nothing but a glance.
“Still with me?” I murmur, my lips brushing hers, the words coming out softer than I mean them to.
Her smile is wicked and lazy all at once. “Always. Now don’t you dare stop.”
The way she says it—half threat, half plea—obliterates what’s left of my control. I move over her, our kiss turning hungry, then I grab her ankles, dragging her in one swift motion to the end of the bed before lifting her into my arms and carrying her to thecouch. I lower her down slowly, sliding her along my body, her heat leaving streaks of pleasure down my torso.
“Quite the dirty girl, aren’t you?” I ask, voice low. “What am I gonna do with you?”
Esmerelda bats her nails against my chest, looking up at me innocently through her lashes. “Wow, I don’t know. Perhaps I should clean it up.”
She scoots off the couch and sinks to her haunches, looking up at me again, forever my temptress, before sliding her mouth over me, licking up the evidence of our fucking.
I grab her wrists and yank her to her feet, spinning her around and leaning her over the arm of the chair. Trailing my tongue up her back, I taste her salty sweetness. The taste of her I’ll never be able to get enough of, but knowing her sweat is from our lovemaking drives me to the brink of distraction.
She gazes over her shoulder at me, eyes hooded. “No fair. I was just getting started on tasting you.”
“I know, sweetheart, but believe me when I say I’d be too rough for you right now to ever let that happen.”
“I like it rough,” she sasses.
“Yeah,” I growl, leaning over her. “That much I know.”
I claim her mouth and thrust into her in the same breath. Her gasp gets swallowed by my kiss as I pound into her, hard, relentless, with a punishing rhythm. Her hands splay in front of her, clawing at the couch cushions.
“Esme,” I grit out, voice ragged, “be a good girl and come for me.”
“No.”
My brow furrows. “No?”
