Page 121 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

He breaks into a grin, moving his to against her bare back, and all of Chloe longs to be touched like that, with that look on his face, with that desire in his eyes.

Oh, this could be fun.

His other hand comes to rest over the frankly purple bruise on her ribs.

“Now you,” he starts, low, “are going to speak up the moment I hurt this.”

“I can take it,” Chloe vows, her blood boiling for more touch, for more contact, for more of this, then, “trust me to tell you before you damage anything.”

It’s almost a plea.

He considers, tilting his head towards her, and it takes too long. Too long, too much thought, and—

He grips her by the hips, fingers digging in, and teleports her the short distance to the bed. Her back hits the same blanket they slept under, his pillow still dented, drawing a gasp from her.

His hand parts her thighs as he presses a kiss against her breastbone.

“Take off your pants,” he rasps, and she’s never done so quicker, her heart pounding with delicious anticipation, until she’s bare in front of him.

Bare, and his breath hitches as he leans back, taking her in. Mapping her out like a puzzle, like he’s forming an angle of attack.

“You too,” she interrupts, and his mind visibly skips, his eyes unfocusing.

She caught him off guard, and it’s delicious.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he all but growls, but he follows her order, his hands only shaking a little bit, the only trace of his normal fear.

And now she knows what that fear is for. And now she knows what pushes him towards this, towards the power.

But before she can formalize the thought, before she can let herself spiral into new directions, he trails his hand up the bare skin of her thigh, startling a shiver out of her.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now,” he murmurs, “stop.”

And she does.

Grabbing him, she pulls him down against her in a kiss, all skin against skin. This new body is unscarred except for a small mark on his lower abdomen, like before he died he had his appendix removed, and it’s somehow the only blemish on him. No bruises, no signs of the battle the day before, nothing.

She draws her nails up his back, and he shudders at the touch, before he captures her in another kiss, brutal. Pressing. Wanting.

Arching her back against him, he positions himself so deliberately, so wonderfully, and the head of his cock pushes against her opening.

She freezes, blinking up at him, and he does the same, for one long moment.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispers, pushing up at him, so he drags against her clit, sending sparks up her back. “Don’t you dare—”

Before she can finish the sentence, before she can even think, his hands close over her wrists, drawing them up over her head, pinning her down, and thrusts inside of her.

She gasps, her entire body clenching all at once, and he groans, low in the back of his throat. He’s big, much bigger than she would’ve thought, and it takes her breath away.

She’s not sure how dick size would change with a new body, but she has no complaints about this one as she shifts against him, almost unable to breathe.

And he holds her down, pinning her wrists, as she squirms to get used to his size, to the sudden invasion.

She could escape.

It hits her, as she breathes through the stretch of him, of that crystal point between pleasure and pain, and she could get out. Could easily extract her wrists from his grip, easily leave. She’s not trapped, she’s not helpless.

She’s just being held.

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