Page 93 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

I grind my teeth in frustration, my blood already running hot for other reasons.

“That’s exactly my point. How can we keep doing this when we’re on such different pages? We can’t argue one moment about whether we should even be soulmates and then…”

“Then what?” he asks, leaning against me, letting me feel the weight of his body pressing against mine. I know he’s provoking me, and it’s working. When it comes to Ruskin, I’m helpless.

“And then fuck the next!” I snap. I’m annoyed I’m not keeping my cool, but it’s frankly impossible with him so near.

He turns his face back into my neck, burying his nose in my hair, inhaling deeply.

“But don’t you want to fuck, Ella?” he asks, his words vibrating in the shell of my ear. I squirm at his use of my nickname, the way it instantly recalls all the shared intimacy between us. “Why complicate things?”

His hands go to my arms, tugging my dress even further down, exposing the thin fabric of my chemise—which is barely any barrier at all between his hands and my breasts. I let out a sigh with too much of an edge to it—the beginnings of the moans I know he wants to pull from me.

“Why can’t we just enjoy each other? Forget everything else.” He circles his hands around my breasts, stroking my hardening nipples in time with his words. “No expectations, no promises.”

He squeezes my right breast harder, making my slowly mounting arousal shoot up several notches. It’s too much. How am I supposed to resist him when he’s like this? How am I supposed to keep my wits about me?

“Rus,” I gasp.

“You want this,” he whispers, “it’s okay to admit it.”

I bite my lip, uncertain. Is it really safe to give in? I want to, so badly. But I also don’t want to lead Ruskin on. I know he wants us to be more, to be the fully bonded naminai that everyone makes such a big deal about, but what if I can’t give him that? Would he really be okay with indulging in no-strings sex when that still hangs over us?

With every moment I feel my logical thinking slipping away. Ruskin’s hands tweak and tease through my chemise, sending jolts of anticipation down through my stomach, into my rapidly slickening core. It becomes harder and harder to think of anything other than the fact that he’s given me permission; he’s said he’s okay with no promises. Maybe he’s right. Why should I keep myself from this pleasure? Why shouldn’t I have some fun, after all the death and fear and uncertainty? I deserve to live a little.

“Ruskin,” I say, and he looks up, meeting my gaze in our reflections. The fire is burning more brightly than ever, but I know only I can make the choice whether to stoke it into a raging blaze.

“No expectations,” I repeat.

He hums with approval as he realizes I’m agreeing to his suggestion.

“None at all,” he assures me, his voice rough as a blunted blade.

I twist around to kiss him, the release carnal and desperate as I stop holding back, and our lips crash together. Our tongues fight for dominance as he pulls me into him, tugging me to the edge of my seat. I tilt back a little to balance myself, spreading my legs and he takes it as an invitation, pushing my skirts up and sliding his hands across my thighs.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed this,” he says, the words coming out as a growl. I don’t think he’s just talking about the last few days. He seems to be thinking back to the days before I left, when our desire was uncomplicated, free—unspoiled by doubt.

“Me too,” I admit, the words cut off by a whimper as his hand finds my underwear. The pressure of his fingers on my aching flesh is already delicious, and I grind against him, silently begging for more.

“You’re so wet.” He grins against my mouth, fingers pressed against the soaked fabric.

“Always,” I gasp as he slides the scrap of material down my legs and tosses it aside. “Always for you, Rus.”

I bite my lip as soon as the words are out, worried I’ve said too much. That sounds dangerously like something a soulmate would say, isn’t it? That I’ll be ready for him forever, rather than just for one night?

But Ruskin doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything before kneeling and lowering his head between my legs. Blood rushes to my core in readiness, my body feeling like it’s about to go up in flames, and I lean further back, angling my pelvis to give him better access.

The first swipe of his tongue feels like he’s leaving a trail of liquid fire across me, and I know I’ve made the right choice. How could I have said no to this—to the way his firm licks become wonderful friction as he buries his mouth against me, tasting and devouring me, worshipping my clit until I’m on the edge of climax in a matter of minutes? I bury my hands in his hair, urging him on, only for him to remind me who’s in charge when he grabs my leg and hooks it over his shoulder, tilting me back further and allowing him to access me more deeply. He’s ravenous, and I’m transfixed by the way he swallows me up, making lightning dance across my skin as my orgasm spreads from the apex of my thighs outwards, across my stomach and chest, sinking right down into my fingertips.

I cry out, shaking beneath him, every moment better than the next as the ecstasy crests over me. I don’t have time to even contemplate the come down, however, because Ruskin’s hands are back on my hips, urging me onto my feet.

“What are you?—”

“Stand up,” he demands, shoving the seat of the dressing table aside as I do. The inside of my thighs are still wet, my legs weak from the climax.

And yet I obey, letting him guide me backwards until my ass hits the edge of the dressing table. He strips off his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine, and begins unbuckling his pants.

My confusion melts away into renewed hunger—along with eagerness to get my hands all over him—and I start to help him.

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