Page 66 of Stolen
In one fluid motion, I grab her hips and lift.
She gasps, clutching my shoulders, her thighs parting as I guide her over me.
I do not fumble. I do not search.
I find her—exactly where I need to be—with the first flex of my hips.
Her body opens for me, her cunt is wet and wanting, and the moment I slide deep into her heat, the world vanishes.
My vision tunnels.
My breath stops.
She moans, a soft sound swallowed by the cocoon of magic we’re wrapped in.
“Alaric,” she whispers like prayer.
I don’t answer.
I just hold her tighter.
And begin to move.
Cupping her ass, I grind against her clit, loving the way her pussy rewards me with a squeeze every time I stroke her just right.
And I can’t stop.
I don’t want to.
I drive into her, deeper, faster, touching her everywhere I can.
Her legs lock around my waist like shackles made of silk and sin.
Thick thighs squeezing, hips lifting greedily to meet every slow, deliberate thrust I give her.
And fuck, the sounds she makes—each gasp, moan, and whimper—is its own kind of spell.
I lick into her mouth, tasting her pleasure, swallowing her need, refusing to give her air because I want to feel her pulse against my tongue.
I want to own her in every breath, every beat.
But my viyella?
She just clutches me tighter.
She takes me like she was made for me.
Like her body was carved by the same gods who wrote our bond in the stars.
And it undoes me.
I’m barely holding on, but still, I want more.
Truth is, I want everything.
This started as a means to an end. An illusion I thought I could conjure like any glamour I’ve ever cast.
But I’m in over my head. I fucking know it. And it’s way too late to stop now.
