Page 72 of A Wolf of War
His words struck her. Hard. Fast. She realized she was panting; short, quick bursts of breath that made her head spin. Willow swallowed, letting her head fall back, her words coming loose like a prayer.
“Milo, please,I need you.”
Willow’s fingers tangled in his hair, her back arching, every nerve in her body straining toward him. The bond cut through her like a current—every touch amplified, every brush of his mouth sparking low and deep.
His hand slid lower, between her thighs, spreadingheat and pressure where she already ached for him. Willow moaned softly, thighs clenching tighter, her whole body alive with sensation. She could hardly think—only feel, only want.
“Milo…” Her voice broke on his name, half-plea, half-surrender.
When he finally slipped two fingers inside of her, curling them slowly. He dragged in and out, and Willow nearly lost her mind. Her moan was louder now, full of something akin to pain.
He lifted his head to watch her face, bringing his closer to hers, his fingers still working her with a slow, steady rhythm that unraveled her. “That’s it,” he growled against her neck. “Tell me how badly you need to be fucked, Willow. I want to hear it from that beautiful mouth.”
She melted under him, giving herself over entirely—to his hands, to his mouth, to his heat pressing her down into the bed until she was certain she would break apart in his arms.
“You feel so—oh!—fuckinggood,” Willow groaned, her hips rocking in perfect rhythm with his hand. The room lay cloaked in shadows, but the fire building inside her blazed brighter than any sun, floodingher senses and driving her closer—ever closer—to the edge.
Milo pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering, “I’m going to make you come until you pass out.”
It sounded like a vow, but it landed like a warning. The sheer power he held over her body, over her, was staggering. With nothing more than his hands, he could open her completely.
The thought of his mouth tracing that same devastation made her tremble.
She knew already, of course. Their dreams had given her glimpses, muted shades of this hunger. But this? This was something else entirely. This was reality stripped raw. What he did to her now bent reason, mocked the very idea of control, and thrived in the exquisite chaos of her undoing.
Her head fell back.
She cameundone.
34
MILO
She was flying through space and time, caught in the orbit of his touch, her whole body answering to a single hand. Every flicker of expression that crossed her face shredded what little control he still clung to. Milo’s cock twitched painfully. A growl tore through his teeth, low and guttural, as he descended.
She whimpered for his attention. In that moment, there was no question.
Willowbelongedtohim.
Slowly, he dragged his tongue, flat and rough, against her glistening slit. Her arousal, now hovering in front of his face, had a scent both rich and undeniable, a force that consumed everything else. Time seemed to fracture, each heartbeat a point at which his mind broke. The edges of his vision blurred, darkened, until there was nothing left but her—laid out before him like the only meal he’d ever eat again. This was the feast he’d hungered for, denied and aching, and now it was finally within reach.
Milo spread her pussy with a deft hand, latching onto her swollen clit with gentle, insistent lips. The response was instant, a visceral jolt that sent her hips arching, trembling as they pressed up against his mouth with a desperate, fragile force. The sound that toreout of him was unrestrained, a guttural moan that betrayed just how undone he was by her.
“Fuck, baby, the way you taste,” he groaned as he came up for air.
He followed through on his promise with merciless dedication. Minutes bled away, and she was left glistening with sweat, fingers twisted deep into the sheets, spine locked in a desperate arch beneath his touch. Her breaths came ragged and shallow, each one dragged from her like it cost her everything; he was sure the exhaustion twined inseparably with the pleasure wracking her body.
“Milo, please…” she cried out, “I need you to fuck the next one out of me.”
Those words shattered his entire reality. He felt himself coming apart at the seams, his mind scrambled, his vision blurry. Milo turned his gaze to meet hers, knowing that he looked every bit like the monster she was so desperate to hate.
But when their eyes locked, all he found staring back at him was a mirror of his own desperate lust. Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a hint of fear. She wanted this—wanted him—as badly as he did.
Milo rose up just enough to peel away his shirt, the fabric clinging before sliding free, baring the hardplanes of his chest. Willow’s breath caught. He knew she’d seen him shirtless before, but never like this, hovering above her in the flesh, gaze molten. Every inch of him was carved with strength that had been honed for war but now focused entirely on pleasuring her.
His hands went to his belt, the quiet sound of metal sliding free echoing in the stillness of the room. Willow’s pulse stuttered, the sight both terrifying and intoxicating. When he unfastened his pants, her eyes followed the movement.
Milo noticed. The corner of his mouth curved in the faintest, most dangerous smile. “What are you staring at, naughty girl?” he teased, his voice roughened with restraint. He slid the belt free in one smooth motion, the leather whispering before snapping taut between his hands. The sound cracked through the room like a warning, sharp and deliberate, a promise delivered by a threat.
