Page 68 of The Tower

“Like this?” he asks, and the genuine question in his voice—his desire to give me exactly what I need—nearly undoes me.

“Yes,” I gasp. “And I want—” I falter, still held back by some lingering inhibition.

He leans up, his mouth at my ear, his voice a dark whisper. “Tell me, Princess. I want to hear you say it.”

The nickname slides over me like warm honey, somehow transformed from mockery into endearment. I turn my head, my lips grazing his ear as I find my courage.

“I want you to make me come again,” I whisper, my voice dropping to match his. “Please, Liam.”

I feel him shudder beneath me at the sound of his name, a tremor running through his powerful body. His hand at my hip tightens, and the sharp burst of pain heightens every other sensation.

In one fluid motion, he changes our position, sitting up so that we’re chest to chest, my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still impossibly deep inside me. The new angle sends sparks through me, and his fingers never stop their relentless rhythm against my clit.

“Look at me,” he demands again, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. “I want to see you fall apart.”

I couldn’t look away if I tried. His eyes seem to reach inside me, touching places no physical sensation ever could. My body tightens around him, every muscle coiling as the pressure builds.

“Oh, yes. That’s it. You have such a tight little clit. Can you feel me playing with that sweet nub?”

“Yes,” I murmur, barely able to form words.

“Sasha.” My name is like a rough caress. “Let go, Princess. Let me feel you come around my cock.”

The crude words from his perfect mouth push me over that precipice, something breaking free, so that I’m falling, falling, falling as pleasure crashes over me in waves so intense I cry out his name, my nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

He holds me through it, his hips still moving in perfect counterpoint to mine, drawing out each electric ripple of sensation until I’m trembling against him. And just when I think I can’t take anymore, he wraps an arm around my waist and flips us over in one swift, powerful movement.

Now he’s above me, his weight delicious and solid, his eyes wild with a hunger that makes my breath catch.

“Mine,” he growls, the word primal and possessive.

I should rebel against this claim. I’ve spent my life being owned, controlled, possessed. But all I can say is, “Yes.”

With a low groan, he takes my hands, then pins them above my head with a grip that sends another rush of heat through me. He bends my knees up to my chest then drives his hips forward in a rhythm that feels almost desperate, each thrust punctuated by a sound low in his throat that’s half growl, half moan.

“Sasha,” he gasps, my name sounding like both a prayer and a curse. “Fuck, Sasha.”

I arch beneath him, meeting each powerful thrust, wanting—needing—to give him the same shattering release he’s given me.

“Let go,” I urge, my lips against his throat where I can feel his pulse hammering wildly. “I want to feel you.”

His eyes meet mine. Then, with one final, powerful thrust, he stiffens above me. I feel the hot pulse of his release deep inside and watch in wonder as his face transforms —all the hard edges softened, all the careful calculation stripped away, leaving just the man, beautiful and broken like me.

“Like what you see?” I tease, watching those incredible blue eyes trace a path up and down my body. We’re both lying on our side, facing each other. I’d pulled the sheet up to my neck in what I know is an ironic act of modesty, but he’d just tugged it right off again, leaving me fully exposed, my skin tingling with the memory of every way he’d touched me.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Oh, no,” I say. “You do not get to force me to lie here naked and then laugh. That is very, very, very bad for the female ego.”

His fingertips trace from my shoulder, along the curve of my breast, then down my side, before coming to rest on my hip.

I sigh. “Nice,” I say. “But you’re not off the hook. What are you thinking that’s so funny?”

“Not funny,” he says. “Ironic, maybe.”

I press my hand against his chest, then make a fist, leaving me holding a clump of chest hair. “Will it be funny when I tug?”

Now the twitch is a full-on laugh. “The princess has grit.”