Page 199 of The Wishing Game

Sweetheart," he groans.

He trails his fingers lower, hovering over my belly.

I'm so gone that not even the presence of my scars bothers me anymore. They are a part of me, andeverypart of me is his.

"You're so beautiful," he rasps in a ragged voice. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He reaches between my legs, and before I can anticipate what he means to do, he plunges two thick fingers inside me.

I gasp at the sharp intrusion and struggle to keep my balance as I hold on to his shoulders. Shadowy tendrils wrap themselves around my arms as he keeps me in place, bringing me closer to him.

"So warm," he speaks, his tone one of awe. "So tight."

He thrusts his fingers all the way inside me, and I struggle to keep a straight face as he pumps them in and out.

"A bit slower," I tell him with a wobbly smile. "It's been a while."

My inner muscles struggle to accommodate the girth of his fingers, a stinging sensation echoing around my entrance.

"How long?" he barks as he rests his head on top of my shoulder, the shadows enveloping his body becoming wilder, more out of control. Shimmery particles circle around us like a cocoon.

"You know," I answer.

"Tell me," he demands, his fingers curling inside of me and making me tense. I dig my nails into his shoulders, but they easily slip through the undulating shadows that become increasingly more chaotic.

"Since the day of the accident," I whisper. "Please tell me you're not still jealous."

He doesn't reply.

"You're not jealous, are you?" I repeat, a little apprehensive.

"With you, jealousy is a constant state of being," he says tensely.

I blink in confusion.

"But you know I'd never..."

"Luce," he calls my name in a strangled voice. "You are mine. Do you understand that?"

He thrusts into me again, more forcefully.

"Say it," he urges, flattening the back of his palm against my mound and cupping my sex, his fingers buried deep inside of me.

The shadows cling to him like smoke clings to a flame, growing bigger and bigger as his emotions heighten.

Inside me, his touch is cold yet hot, a paradox I cannot explain. A pleasure marred by pain I should not enjoy—yet I do anyway.

"I'm yours." I swallow. "I'll always be yours."

More dark tendrils slither from him, enveloping me entirely. The speed of his pumps increases too, and tears stab at my eyes from the mix of pain and pleasure.

A sharp cry resounds in the air, one I barely recognize as my own voice.

"Please." I tug at him.

I'm unused to this side of him, but more than anything, I'm surprised by my reaction to it—by the fact that a part of me craves this harsh claiming.

Our lovemaking has always been gentle, mostly due to my past and the fact that he never wanted to do anything that might make me uncomfortable. But I've always known there was more to him—a raging storm masked by an undisturbed calm. There were moments I witnessed this untamed side of his, just as there were moments I wished he'd give in and simply take me.

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