Page 12 of King of Shadows

I nod. “Keep going.”

The burn eases into something deeper, fuller. I want all of him. He gives it to me, sinking in until he bottoms out, and we both groan at the same time. We look down to where we’re joined. There is no telling where I end and he begins.

Then he starts to move. His hands pin both of mine above my head as he drags out and pushes back in, eyes locked on mine the entire time.

I cry out his name with every thrust. He puts his mouth to my ear, still kissing my neck. “Is it like you imagined?”

“Yes,” I moan. Then, because it’s the truth: “Better. Way better.”

I barely recognize the sounds coming out of me. It feels filthy and perfect and too good to be real.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps. “This body was made for me. Look at you. Taking my cock so well. Such a good girl.”

The praise sinks under my skin.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he goes on, driving into me. “All week, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Waking up, falling asleep. You were in my head the whole damn time.”

Something in my chest loosens. It wasn’t only me. He was thinking about me too.

“You consumed me, Chloe.” He lets my wrists go and his hand slides to my throat, not squeezing, just holding, while his pace picks up. I grab his back and scratch hard enough to leave marks, moaning as he slams in deeper, more brutal now, bottoming out every time. I come again with a choked cry.

“So fucking beautiful when you come,” he says, watching me fall apart. “Look at you.”

Then he pulls out. I make a sound of protest. “Patience baby.”

He’s already dragging me up the bed, burying his face between my legs again. The shock of his mouth after his cock makes me shatter almost immediately. I cry out and come on his tongue, wet and shaking.

When he lifts his head, he looks wrecked in the best way, chin shining. Then he slams back inside me. I scream. “Fuck!”

He fucks me into the mattress like he wants us fused to it, deep and relentless, until I come again. I say his name like it’s a chant. He finally follows with a groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside me.

“Fuck baby…” he groans.

He doesn’t pull out, as he rolls, taking me with him, and drags me on top of his chest, still joined, his arm locked around my back, rubbing lazy circles. We both remain like that breathless.

After a while he slowly pulls out and gets out of bed. I hear the bathroom door, then running water. When he comes back, he has a cloth in his hand. And when he cleans me so carefully with it, it almost undoes me.

No one has ever done this. I’ve read aftercare in books, and I always assumed it was something that happened only in fiction. And now this huge, tattooed stranger who broke into my apartment is wiping between my legs with so much care.

When he’s finished, he disappears into the bathroom again, and comes back to bed. He pulls me into his chest. I breathe him in, musk, wood, and something darker underneath. I rest my head over his heartbeat.

“Are you going to tell me how you got in?” I ask.

“You have a weak lock. That’s all I’m saying.”

I lift my head. “You picked my lock?”

“Tonight, yes.”

“And the first time?”

“No. You left the fire escape open. I came in that way.” His thumb traces idle circles on my shoulder. “I locked it before I left. It was still locked today. So I used the door.”

“My landlord swore that lock was safe. You need to stop doing that.”

“Then give me a key.”

“No. I just met you. I don’t even know you.”