Page 49 of Claimed By the Enemy
I kiss him again, harder this time, pouring all my fear and relief and gratitude into the connection between us. This time, he doesn’t pull away.
His arms come around me, and suddenly we’re falling back onto the bed together. I’m mindful of his injuries, gentle with the bruises and cuts, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses me back.
“Are you sure?” he asks against my lips.
“I’m sure.”
I kiss him like I mean to erase every lie, every bruise, every mile between who we were and who we might become.
Dom is still letting me lead. For once, he doesn’t try to control anything.
I draw back, standing beside the bed. He watches me, his chest rising and falling, the bruises along his ribs stark in the low light.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it over my head. Slowly. I want him to see. To know this is mine to give. I unhook my bra next, letting it drop, then slide my pants down and step out of them. I’m bare before him, and his eyes darken with something close to awe.
“You’re… breathtaking.” His voice is husky, reverent.
I stand at the side of the bed, one hand braced on the mattress for balance, the other drifting to the waistband of his sweatpants. His eyes follow my every move, dark with want.
“May I?” I ask, though we both know I’m not really asking.
He nods, his eyes locked to mine.
I tug the fabric down carefully, mindful of his injuries. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, needy. My mouth goes dry.
I wrap my fingers around him, stroking slowly from base to tip. He shudders.
“Fuck, Sophie…” His head falls back, lips parting. “Don’t stop.”
“I don’t plan to.” I keep my pace steady, loving the way he twitches under my touch, how he’s already so undone, and I’ve barely started. His hips lift instinctively, then falter as pain catches up. I place a palm flat against his thigh.
“Easy,” I say. “Let me do the work.”
He groans, and I feel it in my bones.
After a few more strokes, his hand finds mine, curling over my knuckles. “Please, Sophie. I need you.”
I shift, crawling over him carefully. His hands hover at my waist, unsure whether to hold me or let me move.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him, bracing my knees on either side of his hips. “Just stay still. I’ve got you.”
His eyes burn into mine. “Yes, ma’am.”
The corners of my mouth lift, and I reach down, guiding him to where I’m already wet and aching. I sink slowly, inch by inch, watching his face twist with pleasure. The stretch is deep, perfect. My breath catches.
When I’m fully seated, I pause, letting us both adjust.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—unreal.”
I begin to move, slow and controlled, grinding my hips in a rhythm meant to drive him mad. His hands finally settle on my thighs, not guiding, just grounding himself.
Every time I roll my hips, I feel him hit that perfect spot. And every time, his breath stutters, like he’s holding back a tidal wave.
“Sophie… you’re going to break me.”
“No,” I murmur, leaning forward just enough to whisper into his ear. “I’m going to put you back together.”
The pleasure builds between us, tense and electric. I set the pace—slow at first, deliberate—until the ache sharpens and I begin to move harder, riding him with intent. His body coils beneath mine, muscles tight, breath ragged.
