Page 122 of The Tower

“Sasha,” he breathes against my lips.

My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, too impatient for precision. He solves the problem by simply yanking the fabric apart, sending buttons scattering across the polished floor. I run my hands across the exposed skin of his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath my palm.

He makes quick work of my conservative court blouse, his mouth never leaving mine as he pushes the fabric from my shoulders. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my breasts, sliding beneath the waistband of my skirt. I’m just as frantic, tugging his belt loose, pushing his trousers down his hips.

We leave a trail of discarded clothing as he steers us deeper into the house toward the spacious living room with its large sectional sofa positioned to take advantage of the view. By the time we reach it, he’s wearing only his slacks and I’m in nothing but my skirt, panties and bra.

He sits, yanking me down to straddle his lap, his hands gripping my waist with possessive force.

I reach behind me to unhook my bra, letting it fall away. His expression transforms into something almost feral as he takes in the sight of me, and the raw hunger I see there sends a flood of heat straight to my core.

“I need this,” I tell him, grinding against his rigid length, feeling the hard outline of him through the fabric between us. “I need you. To feel something real after all of⁠—”

My words shift into a desperate moan as his mouth captures my nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before his tongue soothes the sting.

My head falls back, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him exactly where I need him, sensation arcing through me like lightning. The events of the day—the tension, the fear, the triumph—have left me hypersensitive, every touch amplified, every nerve ending screaming for more.

He devours both breasts with equal hunger, one hand gripping my ass with bruising force to pull me harder against his cock, the other sliding up my rib cage to cup the weight of my breast as he works the other with his mouth. I’m lost in the raw demand of his touch, in the almost savage way he claims my body, in the relentless pressure of his erection against my center even through the layers between us.

“Too many clothes,” I gasp, clawing at his belt.

He makes a sound more growl than chuckle against my heated skin, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure straight to my core. “Desperate, Princess?”

“Fucking starving,” I correct him, finally freeing his belt and attacking the button of his trousers.

His eyes flash at my curse, and in one swift, powerful move, he lifts and flips me onto my back, the air rushing from my lungs as I land on the soft cushions. He towers over me for a moment, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight enough to see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

Then he’s on me, stripping away my remaining clothes with ruthless efficiency—the tailored skirt torn down the seam in his haste, the silk panties shredded by impatient fingers, my shoes tossed carelessly aside. Each garment discarded without ceremony until I lie naked, exposed, my skin flushed and damp with need, my body desperately craving him.

“Christ, look at you,” he whispers, his gaze devouring every inch of me like a starving man at a feast. “Spread out for me like a fucking gift.”

Before I can respond, he drops to his knees between my splayed thighs, gripping my legs to pull me to the edge of the sofa. His mouth blazes a trail of biting kisses from my knee up my inner thigh, each one harder than the last, marking me, branding me. My breath catches in anticipation, body already tensing, clenching around nothing.

The first stroke of his tongue against my center has me arching off the sofa, a broken cry tearing from my throat. But there’s nothing gentle in his exploration—he devours me with the same savage intensity as everything else, sucking hard at my clit before plunging his tongue inside me, his thumbs pressing my folds apart to expose me completely to his assault.

He drives me ruthlessly toward climax, adding two fingers that curl mercilessly against that sensitive spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. It takes only moments before I’m shattering, my body convulsing as pleasure crashes through me with bruising force.

“Liam! Oh, god, Liam.” His name is a prayer and a curse as I come apart beneath his relentless mouth, my hips bucking against him as he works me through every aftershock, not relenting until I’m whimpering from oversensitivity.

When I finally catch my breath enough to open my eyes, he’s standing, stripping off his remaining clothes, his cock jutting thick and heavy, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. His body is a masterpiece of hard planes and sculpted muscle, powerful thighs and broad shoulders built by labor, not a gym. The body of a man who built a house with his bare hands.

“Come here,” I command, reaching for him with greedy hands.

His eyebrow arches, a dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Is that how this works, Princess? You think you’re in charge now?”

He moves with predatory grace, joining me on the sofa but not in the way I expected. Instead of lying over me, he sits, pulling me roughly across his lap. His hand comes down on my ass with a sharp crack that startles a shocked moan from my lips.

“This,” he says, voice dropped to a rumbling bass that vibrates through my bones, “is mine now.” Another smack, harder this time, the sting blooming into heat that pools between my legs. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I gasp, shocked by how much I want—need—this claiming.

“Say it,” he demands, landing another blow, then soothing the sting with a broad palm.

“All yours,” I pant, pushing back into his touch. “I’m yours. Please, Grimm⁠—”

He flips me again, this time onto my back, looming over me with one hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it to my entrance. “What do you need, Princess? Tell me exactly what you need from me.”

“I need you inside me,” I beg, beyond pride, beyond pretense. “Now. Hard. Please.”