Page 90 of Warlord's Plaything

I can’t.

He carries me to the bed, his movements rough, urgent. But this time, there’s a deliberate slowness to his actions, as if he’s savoring every second, every reaction.

His hands grip me like he’s memorizing the feel of my body, his fingers pressing into my skin as if to leave permanent marks. My back hits the mattress, the sheets cool against my heated skin, but the contrast only heightens the fire building between us.

He kneels in between my legs, his eyes raking over my body like he’s mapping every curve, every scar, every imperfection. His gaze is possessive, hungry, but there’s something else there too—something raw, almost reverent.

It’s unnerving, how he can look at me like I’m both a prize and a prayer.

His hands start at my ankles, his touch feather-light as they glide up my legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When his fingers reach my thighs, he pauses, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there, and I shiver, my breath hitching.

He smirks, that infuriating, knowing smirk, and leans down to press his lips to the inside of my knee.

"Xyron—" I start, but my voice falters as his mouth moves higher, his teeth grazing my skin in a way that makes me gasp.

"Patience," he murmurs against my thigh, his breath hot, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

I don’t want patience. I want him wild. Not this… slow and deliberate movements. It’s as if he’s making sure I’m real.

Branding me.

Taking my soul.

This is more dangerous than losing control.

A moan escapes my lips as he takes his time.

His lips and hands explore every inch of me as if he’s determined to drive me mad. His mouth finds the curve of my hip, his tongue flicking over the bone, and I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, and moves lower, his breath hot against the most sensitive part of me, my wet cunt.

When his tongue finally touches my core, my body almost jolts as sparks fry my nerve endings. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth working with a precision that leaves me trembling, my hands clutching at the sheets. He’s relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, until I’m gasping, my hips moving against him of their own accord.

"Xyron, please—" I choke out, my voice breaking. “Fuck me.”

He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine, and the look on his face is enough to make my breath catch. He’s not smiling now. His expression is fierce, almost feral, as he moves up my body, his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot against my skin.

"Fuck you?" he growls, his voice rough, his eyes burning into mine.

I don’t hesitate. "Yes."

He doesn’t need more than that. He brushes his cock against my cunt, then he enters me in one swift motion. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He pauses, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to mine, and for a moment, we’re both still, caught in the intensity of the connection.

Then he moves, slow at first, each thrust calculated, each one drawing a gasp from my lips. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm that’s both punishing and perfect.

I can feel every inch of him, every movement, and it’s overwhelming, the way he consumes me, body and soul.

His mouth finds mine again, his kiss desperate, hungry, as if he’s trying to consume me whole. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my hands roaming over his body, feeling the way his muscles tense and release with every movement.

“Little warrior, I want to fill you so deep, you don’t know where I end and started,” he whispers in my ears, biting and sucking the sensitive spot.

“Oh…” I moan, trembling and moving to meet his hips. “Fuck me, take me then. Harder.”

As if hearing the pleading and desperation in my voice, his movements grow more frantic, more desperate, each thrust a declaration, a promise, a surrender.

I can feel him losing control, feel the moment he breaks, and it sends me spiraling over the edge with him.

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