Page 83 of The Alien's Cruel Starfrost Domain

He makes a sound deep in his chest—triumph and need and something darker—and claims my mouth again. I surrender completely, letting the last fragments of my resistance shatter. Tomorrow I can hate myself for this weakness. Tonight, I’ll let myself burn...

Or freeze.

And then his fingers are back under my dress, stroking my skin. My pulse flutters beneath his touch, rapid as a hummingbird’s wings, and when I jerk and whimper as his knuckles brush against my clit, he makes a guttural sound deep in his throat.

“I never meant to feel this way,” he says, pressing in close and murmuring in my ear as he caresses me.

I want to ask what he means, but he takes me by the waist and lifts me even higher. When he has me where he wants me, he grinds out, “Put your legs over my shoulders.”

Shivering, I follow his instructions, and he steps in even closer. When he buries his face against me, I no longer resent the loss of my underwear.

He begins with tiny circles of his tongue, and I lean my head back against the wall as he teases me with his touch—until finally, he gives me what I want.

What I need.

With long, sure strokes, Ivrael licks and sucks, tasting me until I writhe beneath his tongue. The feel of his mouth against me leaves me wet and panting, the ache at the center of my being demanding more.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screams that this is madness. That I’m letting the monster who bought me, who terrorizes his household, put his hands on me. But that voice grows fainter with each passing second, drowned out by the thundering of my pulse and the desperate sounds I can’t seem to hold back.

I lose myself in his touch. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding his mouth to me as if he might try to escape—though we both know he’s not the one who should be running. My other hand roams restlessly across his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I can reach, memorizing the feel of him.

Heat and cold pulse between us in waves, like his magic can’t decide whether to freeze or burn me. Or maybe that’s just me, caught between the ice of rational thought and the fire of blind need. Each brush of his fingers leaves frost patterns blooming on my skin, but I’m burning up from the inside out.

“Mine,” he growls against my hot folds, and something inside me rebels at the possessiveness in his tone.

“No,” I gasp, even as my body arches into his touch. “I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue because in this moment, I am his—completely, utterly his—and we both know it.

His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against me where we’re pressed together. “Your body says otherwise, princess.” The old nickname, usually so mocking, comes out like a caress.

I want to deny it, to hold onto some shred of dignity or resistance. But when his mouth lands on my clit again, any remaining rational thought melts away. I let my head fall back against the wall and push my hips forward, giving him better access even as broken sounds escape my throat.

“Please,” I hear myself beg, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. More? Less? For him to stop? To never stop?

His response is to grip my hips tighter, and I know there will be bruises tomorrow—evidence of this madness that I’ll have to face in the cold light of day. But right now, I welcome the marks. Want them. Want anything that will prove this wasn’t just another fever dream.

The world narrows to sensation—the scrape ofhis stubble against my inner thighs, the alternating heat and chill of his touch, the way my skin seems to come alive wherever he touches me. My dress hangs in tatters, and I should care about that. Should care about a lot of things. But I can only focus on the way his hands map my body like he’s claiming territory.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his mouth muffled against my damp folds. The words vibrate through me, and I shudder. “Tell me you want me.”

“You know I do,” I gasp out, the confession burning my throat. “God help me, you know I do.”

My nails dig into his shoulders as another wave of need crashes through me. I’m drowning in sensation, in the scent of him—that intoxicating blend that’s haunted my dreams for months.

I’m trembling, my body strung too tight, desperate for something I can barely name. Every touch winds me higher, pushing me closer to some precipice I both crave and fear.

“Please,” I whimper again, not even sure what I’m begging for anymore. Everything blurs together in a haze of need.

My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else, but somehow his voice cuts through everything, rough and demanding. “Say it again.”

“Please,” I gasp out, past shame, past pride, past everything except this burning need. “God, Ivrael, please.”

His growl of satisfaction vibrates through me where we’re pressed together. I should hate how easily he can reduce me to this—mindless, desperate, begging. Should hate him for having this power over me. Instead, I arch closer, seeking more of his touch, more of this maddening blend of fire and ice that dances between us.

Cold pulses in the air around us, making my skin tingle everywhere we touch. It feels ancient, primal. The sensation should frighten me—one more reminder that he’s not human, that this is all kinds of wrong. But I’m beyond fear now. Beyond thought. Beyond everything except the desperate need to get closer, to have more.

He adds his fingers, slipping them inside me, and I gasp as he matches the rhythm of his mouth, thrusting in and out to the circlingand flicking of his tongue around and across my clit. When he curls his fingers forward, pressing against my inner walls, my orgasm takes me by surprise.

The hot and cold flashes that throb between us reach their peak, electric and wild, making my skin tingle everywhere we touch, pulsing through me in flashes, my entire body tensing with the release.

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