Page 110 of Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

He stiffened, nails tightening around me, fighting the primal desire to move with me against the desire to be gentle with me.

But I had already told him I didn’t want gentle.

I used my thighs to urge him to withdraw, and a slow, predatory smirk spread over his lips as he understood what I was doing. What I was giving him permission to do.

Another stroke, harder this time. I urged him back into me fiercely. The balance of sensations now skewed pleasure, hunger, desire for more.

I was louder this time, my moan a strangled gasp, which earned a wordless, approving sound from him.

Weaver, I wanted to bottle that sound and keep it. That pleasure imbued his entire body, his threads, vibrating in mine.

This time he ground against me, hips circling as if to make sure his cock branded every part of me, as deep as he could go.

Oh gods—gods?—

He hit something there, something deep, making me claw at him and let out a fully involuntary cry.

I yanked him closer, a rough movement with my legs, harsh and demanding.

A challenge.

The bars of the cage snapped.

He kissed me hard, his tongue invading my mouth with the force of his next thrust, which left me whimpering against him. Suddenly, his hands were at my wrists, roughly pinning them above my head, forcing my body to stretch against the stone—exposing it all to him.

His next thrust wasn’t gentle.

It was exactly what he had warned me of. His presence, a force of pure lust and impulse and raw, uncontainable power surrounded me,and I let it take me over, let my own soul meld with it, our threads now so tangled that neither of us would be able to tell where one stopped and the other began.

I relished it. Relished the control and the relinquishment in every stroke, every thrust, every time his cock bottomed out within me, grinding against me. Pleasure built there, where we were connected, the entire universe disappearing except for him and me and our bodies and everything that I still wanted from him. Weaver,neededfrom him.

Gods, what a fool I was for thinking his tongue was the pinnacle of what pleasure could be. That was nothing. Nothing compared to feeling him surge into me, again and again, before I could catch my breath.

With one particularly powerful thrust, my entire body arched against the rock, the sound escaping my lips wild and wordless and too-loud. My body rocked against it, matching the force, chasing the pinnacle of pleasure that rapidly rushed toward me—rushed toward both of us, I knew, because I could feel it in his aura, maddening and close, fraying our final threads of control.

I needed him to sever it with me.

My head nearly slammed back into the stone with the force of our passion, but one of his hands slid between my hair and the rock, the other still holding my wrists firmly above my head.

He held himself there, deep, both of us trembling around it. The sudden lack of friction was torturous, even if the depth hit me exactly where I needed him.

I tilted my head to kiss him, but he inched back, so our lips were only barely brushing.

“You don’t come yet,” he growled.

Weaver damn him.

I moved defiantly against him, making both of us let out hitched moans.

“I feel how much you want it, too.”

As if in agreement, I felt his length twitch inside me, like he had to physically hold himself back from fucking me with those final few strokes.

There was nothing sweet in his smile, sharp with hunger.

“I dreamed about this,” he murmured. “What you might look like, unraveled and desperate, in the seconds before I let you go. I want to savor it.”

Our words were harsh, playing into the game we’d started—that this was about hunger and desire and lust and nothing more. But I felt something else stir deep in his presence then, right around the wordsavor. Something I felt echoed in mine.

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