Page 47 of His to Destroy

“Wait.”

He freezes, eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation.

But there isn’t any.

Not anymore.

I push gently at his chest until he leans back. I sit up, straddle his lap, and cup his jaw in both hands. “Let me,” I whisper.

Surprise flickers in his expression—followed by something darker. Desire.

He lets me push him down onto the pillows.

I kiss his chest first, letting my tongue trail over every scar, every shadow of his past. He gasps when I bite softly at his collarbone, his hands fisting the sheets beside him.

My fingers trail down his torso, over the tight plane of his abs. I pause just long enough to meet his gaze.

His chest is rising and falling in rapid breaths, eyes locked on mine like he’s already close to losing control.

And when I lean down and take him into my mouth, he groans—a deep, helpless sound that vibrates through my core.

I take my time.

My tongue teases. My lips slide over him slow and wet, swallowing every inch of him at my pace, enjoying the way he tenses beneath me, one hand burying itself in my hair, the other clenched at his side.

“Almeria,” he rasps, voice fraying. “You’re going to kill me.”

But I don’t stop.

I want him unraveling. I want to taste his surrender.

I want to claim him the way he’s claimed every part of me.

Only when he’s trembling and cursing under his breath do I finally rise from his lap.

His eyes are wild, every inch of him strung tight.

He reaches for me—but I push him back down and straddle him slowly, guiding him inside me inch by inch until I’m filled completely.

We moan together.

His hands fly to my hips, gripping tightly as I begin to move. Slow circles. Deep rolls.

He groans my name, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes.

I ride him harder, my nails dragging across his chest, our bodies moving in sync. He meets me thrust for thrust, the bed rocking beneath us, the headboard tapping against the wall in time with every movement.

When I start to lose control, when my body begins to tremble around him, he sits up—sliding his arms around me, mouth crashing into mine—and flips us with one hard thrust.

Now he’s on top, driving into me deep and slow at first—deliberate strokes that make me feel every inch of him. Each thrust fills me completely, dragging a whimper from my throat as the friction builds and heat spirals out from my core.

My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him closer, deeper.

He groans my name, voice ragged. “You feel like heaven.”

And I do—I feel it. Every grind of his hips. Every stroke that stretches and presses in the perfect way, stroking that sensitive spot inside me until I’m writhing beneath him, clutching his shoulders like I might fall apart if he stops.

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