Page 92 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

He presses his hips against my hand, a slow, deliberate roll, and my breath catches. He's sohard, soready, and gods, I want to give in.

But the rebellion is still licking its wounds. Our people are still counting on us.

And I can't lose myself in this—not completely.

His lips brush my ear, his voice rough and low. "If you keep touching me like that, I won't be able to stop."

I want to tell him not to stop. That I don't care.

But I do.

Because when this happens—when, notif—I don't want it to be because we're desperate and bleeding and drowning in everything we've lost.

I want it to beours.

So, with every ounce of strength I have left, I pull back.

Adrian groans, his hands flexing against my waist, as if he's physically restraining himself from dragging me back.

I rest my forehead against his chest, breathing hard, trying to steady the frantic beat of my pulse.

"We should go," I whisper, but I don't move.

His fingers curl under my chin, tipping my face up to his. His gaze is molten, but there's something else there too—restraint.

"Not yet," he murmurs.

And so we stay like that, caught between what wewantand what wecan'thave.

Not yet.

I thought he meant way down the line after we're done with the rebellion, but he only wanted the place to become more private. Once we were alone, we went to town on each other, as the kids say.

Adrian's lips trail fire over my skin, his breath ragged, his need barely restrained. My fingers twist in his hair, dragging him closer, urging him on.

He groans against my throat, the sound vibrating through me, making my pulse stutter. His hands grip my waist, rough and desperate, like he's afraid to let go.

And I don't want him to.

I need this. I need him.

His mouth moves lower, over the swell of my breast, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. My back arches instinctively, my body pleading for more, forallof him.

Then, with a sharp tug of his teeth, my bra gives way, the fabric tearing as he rips it from me. A gasp leaves my lips, half surprise, half pleasure, as cool air rushes over my exposed skin.

"Adrian," I whisper, his name a breathless plea.

He growls in response, a deep, primal sound that sends heat pooling between my thighs. His hands skim down my sides, gripping my hips before flipping me onto my back.

There's no hesitation now, no more restraint.

He settles between my legs, pressing himself against me, and I feel the hard, aching length of him through the remaining fabric between us. I shudder, desperate, needy.

And then—finally—he thrusts into me.

A broken moan rips from my throat.

He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot, uneven. "Gods, Elara..." His voice is raw, wrecked, like he's barely holding himself together.

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