Page 109 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

She smirks, satisfied. "Good."

Then she steps closer, her fingers threading through my hair, gripping just enough to own me. I groan as she tilts my head back, her other hand trailing down my chest, my stomach—lower.

"Touch me," she whispers.

And I do.

I worship her, pouring everything I have into the way my hands and mouth explore her, into the way I make her fall apart. She shatters above me, gasping, her nails raking down my shoulders, her body trembling in my hands. But she doesn't give me time to recover.

She takes again.

And I let her.

She doesn't give me time to recover.

Before I can fully catch my breath, she pulls me to my feet, pressing me against the wall, rolling her hips in a way that has me aching.

"You always take control," she murmurs against my lips. "Tonight, you're mine."

Then she sinks down onto me, and I swear I see stars.

I grip her hips as she rides me, slow at first, teasing, drawing moans from both of us. Then she smiles—a wicked, knowing thing—and moves harder, faster, her pace unrelenting.

I groan, my fingers digging into her, barely holding on as pleasure builds, winding too tight, too fast.

"Fuck, Elara?—"

"Not yet," she whispers, biting my jaw.

I growl, but I let her have this. Let her own me. Let her push me to the edge and hold me there until I'm begging.

She presses her forehead to mine, her breath ragged. "Now."

And we fall together, coming at the same time because our bodies, through our bond, are in perfect sync. I can't even imagine myself with anyone else but her.

In that moment, the sweat on her breasts and face glistens in the light and she looks like an angel, with her flowing hair and smile. I immediately want to go back to worshipping her body.

The silence after is thick, heavy with everything we don't say.

Elara rests against me, her fingers tracing idle patterns over my chest. My body still hums from her touch, but something lingers beneath the surface, something unspoken.

She exhales, shifting slightly. "We should talk."

I know that tone. I tense instinctively. "About what?"

She sits up, eyes locked onto mine, her expression unreadable. "About what happens if one of us doesn't make it tomorrow."

A growl rumbles in my throat before I can stop it. "We don't talk like that."

"Adrian—"

"No." I push myself up, the air between us suddenly charged, my pulse spiking again. "I need you to believe we're both walking out of this. I need you to fight like you know we're making it to the other side."

Her jaw tightens. "And I need you to accept that there are no guarantees."

Anger sparks between us, quick and sharp.

"I can't." My voice is rough. "I won't."

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