Page 120 of Warlord's Plaything

I need her like I need air, like I need the fight, like I need the fucking war that’s always raging inside me.

Her lips crash into mine, and it’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. Teeth clash, tongues war, and the taste of her is fire and salt and something darker, something that feels like forever for as long as this lasts. Her nails tighten its hold on my shoulders, drawing blood, and I growl, low and feral, into her mouth.

She pulls back just enough to tear at my tunic, her hands rough, desperate, as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear before she can get to me. The fabric rips, and her palms flatten against my chest, her touch searing even through the grime and sweat of the dungeon.

"Xyron," she breathes, my name a curse, a prayer, a plea.

A rock lodges in my throat, preventing me from speaking. I can’t speak.

Instead, I spin her, pinning her against the almost freezing stone wall, my body pressing into hers until there’s no space left between us.

Her breath hitches, and I feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my lips as I trail them down her collarbone, biting, sucking, marking her as mine.

Her hands fist in my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes are wild, burning with a hunger that mirrors my own.

"You didn’t betray me," I growl, my voice deep, guttural, as my hands slide down her sides, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she shoves me back, her hands shoving at my chest until I’m the one against the wall. Her eyes never leave mine as she drops to her knees, her fingers working at the fastenings of my pants with a precision that makes my blood roar in my ears.

When she takes me into her mouth, I swear. “Fuck, little warrior. What are you doing? Gods!”

The sound echoes off the stone walls, and I don’t care who hears. Her tongue is wicked, her lips relentless, and I can’t stop the way my hips jerk, the way my hands fist in her hair, holding her there even as I try to pull her off.

"Hira—" I choke out, my voice breaking.

She doesn’t stop. If anything, she takes me deeper, her throat working around me, her nails digging into my thighs. I’m losing control, my vision blurring, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and I know I can’t last.

I yank her up, my hands rough, my movements frantic. Her back hits the wall again, and I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her pussy pressing against my cock.

"Now," she demands, her voice a soft whisper, her nails scoring down my back.

I don’t need to be told twice.

I push inside her in one brutal thrust, and she cries out, her head falling back against the stone. Her body clenches around me, tight and hot and perfect.

“Hira, you fit me so good…” I moan. “You’re my warrior…”

I don’t go slow. My move becomes relentless, without rhythm.

This isn’t about tenderness. It’s about possession. It’s about desperation.

It’s about the fucking fire that’s always burned between us, hotter than any war, any betrayal, any death sentence.

Her nails sink into my shoulders, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps as I move, each thrust driving her harder into the wall. Her legs tighten around me, her hips meeting mine with a desperation that matches my own.

"Say it," I growl, my voice rumbling from my chest, my breath hot against her ear.

"I’m your warrior," she gasps, the words torn from her.

"Again."

"I’m yours."

Her voice breaks on the last word, and I feel her shatter around me, her body trembling, her nails digging deeper into my skin. I follow her over the cliffe, my movements growing frantic, my release crashing through me like a hurricane.

When it’s over, we’re both breathless.

She collapses against me, her forehead pressed to my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

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