Page 17 of Cursed Shadows 2

I almost doubt I heard it at all, since he’s a bronzed statue in my room, one with hands fisted and muscles so tense they push against the wool of his sweater.

Understanding flickers through me.

It’s me. Not an imitation. It’s really me, kneeling for him, fingertips pressed against the lace that hides my damp slit—

It’s really me he can smell.

I find power in it.

I play it well.

I keep the lace in place, I don’t pull it aside and reveal so much too soon. I slip my finger around it and—

My lips part around a stifled gasp.

Daxeel’s dimples carve into his cheeks. A guttural sound rumbles through him.

My gaze doesn’t falter from his as I dip my fingers into my heat.

Pleasure has my raspy tone wrapped tight, “Every time I do this…”

His throat bobs.

“I only think of one male…”

Deep dimples carve into his cheeks, darkened beneath the shadows of the Quiet that cling to him.

“His touch, his kiss…”

His head tilts to the side, his gaze scraping all over me, dragging over the flush of my face, the breaths from my parted lips, the strap of the bodice that slips over my shoulder—but always landing back down at my core.

“Dax,” I practically whine his name with need.

I beg him like he wants me to, needs me to.

My lashes flutter shut, but not before I see that violent shudder rattle him, the strongest yet, and it’s the one that spurs him to movement.

Slowly, he advances on me.

I don’t doubt for a second that he fights himself, not because he doesn’t want this, but rather he’s battling the urge to take me harshly. Like he’s stuck in old habits, wants to keep me unafraid.

A moan escapes me as I slide my fingers out from my wet heat, then drag them over my aching clit.

From beneath hooded eyes, I watch as he reaches back his inked hand for the scruff of his sweater. He pulls it off swiftly, then—as he moves for me, his steps predatory—lets it fall to the floor.

It lands on top of my discarded robe.

Fingertips move expertly, around and around the ache of my bud, because if I put too much pressure on it now, I’ll find my end too soon, and I need to keep him desperate for me, need him to feel the call of my arousal for him.

It’s a call he follows.

His paced steps bring him to tower over me, and I have to lean my head back to look up his honeyed, muscled chest, licked with tattoos, to the smoulder of his eyes.

He reaches for his combat trousers.

Practiced fingers undo the strings of his trousers in a heartbeat, then his hard cock falls from its restraints.

It hits my cheekbone as it lands.

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