Page 111 of Heat of the Everflame

But this was something else. Something I’d never truly had before—a worthy opponent. The man staring at me now, lips parted and pupils black as night, had no intention tosubmit.

And I liked it.

A lot.

“Eyes on me, Bellator,” he ordered as his palm slid between my legs. We both sucked in a breath at the revealing wetness he found. The hard callouses on his palm from years of wielding blades created excruciatingly sweet friction against my slick skin. His fingers circled in a way that had my body arching and my hands clawing at the marble.

A satisfied rumble built in his throat. His touch turned deeper, harder, more demanding. One finger pushed inside me, then another.

I writhed against him, and his watchful eyes caught every tiny reaction. His movements adjusted—faster or slower, harder or lighter—as he shrewdly studied the nuance of my pleasure. In minutes, he had worked me into a panting, trembling frenzy.

My body was alive in a way I’d never known. Each breath hung on the stroke of his fingers, my heart seeming to pound in time with his movements.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I felt entranced, entirely at his command—yet somehow free. Unchained. Invincible.

I thrust my hips against his hand, and he grunted his approval. His other hand mapped my body, touching every line and curve in a slow, methodical path, as if committing each one to memory. Each time he passed over one of my many scars, his nostrils flared wide.

The mounting pressure threatened to crack me open. Pleasure merged with my magic and infused my aura, igniting the air around us with a silvery shimmer. His eyes widened in surprise, and it gave me a small thrill and more than a little comfort to know some part of this was new and unexplored for him, too.

I reached for the button on his trousers, and he grabbed my wrist.

“Let me touch you,” I pleaded.

“No.”

His voice was soft, but firm. Unyielding.

“Luther—”

His fingers plunged deeper, and my protests garbled into moans. My control slipped, my head falling back as my eyes squeezed shut.

He buried his face against the curve of my throat. “There’s so much more I want to give you,” he breathed into my skin, sounding nearly as shaken as I was. “So much more you deserve. At least I can give you this.”

I had the vague sense there was something wrong with his words, but I was drowning in need, and the thought floated away before I could catch it.

The pressure built and built and built, excruciating and elating. I was a bomb, a volcano, a match in a powder keg, fire eternal and passion aflame. My fingernails dug into his arms as I trembled on the precipice of release.

“Please,” I begged.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled in my ear.

It took every last shred of willpower to force my eyes open and lean back until our gazes locked.

“You,” I whispered. “All of you.”

Something heart-wrenching filled his expression. His fingers curved into that perfect place inside me, and all semblance of control imploded. Release shuddered through me as I cried his name and collapsed, trembling, into his arms.

More magic poured from my hands unbidden, glowing cords that twined around him and drew him closer. A fond smile touched his lips as he happily obliged, nestling my pleasure-wracked body to his chest. He worked me through each cresting wave with slow, tender strokes, and I clung to him as if his touch were the only thing keeping me whole.

He brushed my hair back from my face, his touch warm and achingly gentle. “Perfect,” he said so quietly I thought he might be talking to himself. “You are so perfect.” His eyes shone with affection, though a discomforting darkness lurked at the edge.

“I am very naked, and you areverydressed,” I joked, trying to laugh off my unease. “Why is it you and I never seem to be unclothed at the same time?”

My hands moved down his chest, and his back stiffened. He gave me a chaste kiss, then began to back away. “Get dressed. Come join us in the parlor.”

I pouted and tugged him back. “The others can wait a little longer.”

I toyed with the hem of his sweater and began to lift it away. He jerked back violently, nearly crashing into the wall behind him. He tried to recover quickly, smoothing his hands over the fabric and bending to grab the towel I’d dropped, but the muscles in his shoulders were still tight as a spring.

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