Page 82 of The Alien's Cruel Starfrost Domain

He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist without hesitation, letting out a small sound of surrender as my dress rides up. I should be mortified by how eagerly I’m responding, but I’m too far gone to care. My back hits the wall and I barely register the cold seeping through the fabric—not when his hands are leaving trails of frost and fire everywhere they touch.

“This last year has been torture,” he groans, and I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria.

“I hate that I want you,” I confess raggedly. “After everything—God, Ivrael, I should despise you. But I can’t stop. I can’t.”

His mouth claims mine again, cutting off my babbling, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to think anymore. Thinking is dangerous. Thinking means remembering all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me, all the cruel things he’s capable of. Don’t want to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I just want to feel.

And when he slides his hand up to cup my ribs, his fingertips brushing the underside of my breast, rational thought scatters. I gasp as his thumb flicks over my nipple, arching into his touch, my body demanding more even as my mind weakly protests.

The roughness of his stubble scrapes against my palm as I cradle his face, sending shivers of awareness throughme. I can’t get enough of touching him. My other hand roams his chest restlessly, desperately, as if mapping his body might somehow calm this frantic need.

He pulls away and his mouth hovers over mine as I wonder at the mixed cold and heat of him—an Icecaix with a molten touch.

“You cannot want this,” he says against my mouth. “Want me.”

A harsh laugh tears from my throat. “Of course I don’t want to want you.” My voice sounds raw, broken. “But I do. God help me, I do. Every time you’re near me, every time I catch your scent or hear your voice...” I hate the honesty spilling from my lips, but I can’t seem to stop. “I crave you. And I hate myself for it.”

His mouth claims mine, swallowing anything else I might try to say, his tongue sweeping across my lips, wiping away anything else I might even try to think.

I moan into his mouth, and he growls—actually growls—and pushes me hard against the wall. He places one hand against my midsection to hold me back against the wall, then grips the neckline of my dress with the other hand and tugs, ripping my bodice open.

The sound of tearing fabric should shock me back to my senses. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through me. When his mouth closes over my breast, I cry out, clutching his head closer. Cold air rushes over my exposed skin where his mouth isn’t, raising goosebumps, but I’m burning up everywhere he touches me.

I moan at the fever streaking out from my nipples and through my entire body, the heat of his mouth a point of burning sensation.

The contrast of sensations—scorching heat and bitter cold—drives me wild. Sparks seem to dance between us wherever our skin meets, as if even our bodies recognize this impossible chemistry. I can’t think past the pleasure coursing through me, don’t want to think about anything except the way he makes me feel.

I trace the line of his pectoral muscles as he moves up to nip at my bottom lip. His hands play across my shoulders, and electricity seems to arc off his fingertips, setting me aflame. Deep in his eyes, similar sparks swirl, his gaze golden and hot enough to scorch me.

I wrap my legs tighter around him, shameless in my need. His eyes capture mine, and I’m lost in those swirling depths. The raw hunger Isee there should terrify me. Instead, it makes me desperate for more. His hands slide up my thighs, leaving trails of frost in their wake, and I shiver—not from cold, but from wanting.

“Please,” I hear myself beg, and hate how wrecked I sound. But I’m beyond pride now, beyond anything except this burning need to have him closer, to feel more.

The elastic of my underwear snaps as he tears it away, and that small violence should frighten me. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through my veins. His icy touch should freeze me solid, but instead it makes my blood run molten.

I’m lost, drowning in sensation, and I don’t want to be found. His touch leaves patterns of frost spiraling across my skin—a physical reminder of everything he is, everything I should fear.

But I can’t fear him. Not now. Not when every cell in my body screams for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my throat, even as his hands continue their maddening exploration. It’s almost cruel, asking me to be the one to end this when we both know I’m too far gone.

“I can’t,” I confess, the words torn from me. “God help me, I can’t.”

My head falls back against the wall as his mouth traces a burning path along my collarbone. I should be ashamed of the sounds I’m making, of how desperately I’m clutching at him, but shame seems to have burned away in the wake of this overwhelming need.

Electric sparks dance wherever he touches me, as if his magic recognizes something in my blood. The thought skitters through my mind and vanishes before I can grasp it, lost in the haze of sensation. His hands brand me with alternating heat and cold, marking me as his in ways that should make me angry.

But I’m beyond anger. Beyond thought. Beyond everything except this frantic need to get closer, to have more.

His fingers trace patterns across my skin—ice and fire intertwined—and I arch into his touch like I’m spellbound. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the only explanation for why I can’t make myself stop, why I’m clinging to him and begging wordlessly for more.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice roughwith need, and I force my eyes open. The gold in his gaze has almost completely overtaken the ice blue, turning his eyes molten. Something wild and ancient seems to stir in their depths, calling to an answering wildness in my blood.

“I should hate you,” I gasp out, even as my body betrays me further, straining closer. “After everything you’ve done?—”

“But you don’t,” he says, cutting me off—and it’s not a question. His certainty should infuriate me. Instead, it sends another wave of heat through my veins.

“No,” I admit, the word catching in my throat. “God help me, I don’t. I can’t.”

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