Page 15 of Stolen By the Submarine

Remembering the comfort of his arms cocooning me away from the world, I stumble toward him.

He catches me by the shoulders and prevents me from burrowing against his chest.

“Not yet, little angel. Wash me. Touch me. Worship me. I am your god down here,” he growls.

A sob wrenches from my chest, but my hands itch to obey his command. I rub the soap in both hands before dropping it on the ledge behind his shoulder and splaying my fingers over his chest.

With my tears and slick almost as prevalent as the water raining down on us, I test the resilience of his flesh and marvel at the rock-hard muscles underneath. His scars hurt my heart, and without thinking, I lean down and press my lips against the one on his shoulder, needing to soothe the pain even though the wound healed long ago. The sting of soap on my lips only encourages me to find the next scar. And the next.

Down his arm. Over his wrist. Each knuckle. The inside of his forearm. His ribs.

He stops me from going lower. His chest expands and contracts with rapid breaths.

I kiss the round scar above his heart. Sadness squeezes my throat as I imagine this massive, powerful alpha as a younger version of himself with a raw, gaping wound after being stabbed with what must have been rebar.

Thin white scars cover so much of him. I continue upward, stopping where his shoulder meets his neck to enjoy the pheromones wafting from him, before leaving a trail of soft pecks up the side of his throat.

His purr deepens. My slick thickens and pain radiates from my womb, but I can’t stop. I must kiss the pain away from the scar on his face.

The stubble on his chin scratches my lips. A shiver runs down my spine. My nipples brush against his chest.

I sweep my lips side to side over the lowest part of his scar. He stops moving. Stops breathing.

With pain and awe overflowing my heart, I kiss every millimeter of his once torn flesh until I reach the top of his scar.

Needing to rid myself of the taste of soap, I lick his cheek.

It isn’t enough.

My body moves on instinct, climbing into his lap and clutching his shoulders as I sneak another lick. I lower my aim, enjoying the different textures of his face.

The silkiness of his lips intrigues me the most. I flick my tongue over the raised scar. Test his bottom lip. Trace the seam of his mouth.

His control breaks.

I gasp as he fists my hair and demands full use of my mouth. His tongue invades and retreats, urging mine to dance along. He grabs my ass and grinds the underside of his shaft through my folds. Water swirls and splashes around our hips.

He stands. I wrap my legs around his waist, trapping his cock between our bodies. My breasts flatten against his chest. Water sluices over us as he stalks through the downpour.

He releases my hair, turns off the shower, and goes right back to dominating my mouth with his.

Too caught up in the haze of lust to notice the world beyond my alpha, I ignore our surroundings and writhe against him, demanding more. More kisses. More friction. More pleasure. More pain.

He nips my bottom lip.

“Be still, little angel, or I’ll knot you against the wall.”

I whine. I want.

He hisses and pulls my hair, aiming my face up to the ceiling, exposing my neck, and forcing me to listen.

“I’m climbing down the ladder. Don’t move,” he snarls.

I writhe, needing his hard shaft inside me, not pressed against my stomach.

“Stop grinding that hot, wet pussy against me before I deny you my knot again. Is that what you want, baby? My seed spilling from your cunt instead of filling up your womb?”

A whine, impossibly more pathetic than before, fills the air. I shake my head and groan as the movement pulls the hair in his grasp.

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