Page 61 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Now you're marked." His eyes lock with mine—black threaded with gold that burns brighter than usual. "Inside and out."
"Would it have mattered? If I'd died?"
His hand stills. "You know it would."
"Do I? You own my soul. You've had your entertainment. Maybe a dead pet would be convenient."
"Stop." The word comes out rough.
"Why? It's true. I'm nothing here. Just another mortal you collected—"
His hand slides from my ribs to my throat, not choking, just resting there. Possessive. His thumb presses against my pulse where it hammers. "You think you're nothing?"
"I know I'm nothing. Chad made that clear. You confirmed it. I'm just—"
"You're mine." His eyes burn brighter, and his hand tightens slightly. "My court bends to your suggestions. My blood runs through your veins. My control breaks every time you enter a room. That's not nothing."
The air between us shifts, charges. His thumb strokes my pulse, and I realize how close he is, leaning over me on his bed. The healing left my skin hypersensitive, and everywhere he touches sparks.
"Azzaron—"
"You want to know if it would matter?" His free hand finds my thigh, pushing the torn dress higher. "Let me show you exactly how much it would matter."
He pushes me back into his sheets, and I sink into expensive fabric that smells entirely of him. "You don't get to minimalize this."
"Minimalize what?"
Instead of answering, he spreads my thighs. The torn dress falls aside, and his hands are hot on my skin, claws careful as he positions me how he wants. Open. Vulnerable. His.
"You don't get to pretend you're nothing." He lowers his head between my thighs, breath hot against sensitive skin. "Not when you remake my entire court with a suggestion. Not when you bleed in my arms. Not when you carry my blood inside you."
His tongue finds me, and thought dissolves. He devours me with the same decisive efficiency he used to snap that man's neck—controlled violence channeled into pleasure. His hands hold my thighs apart when I try to close them, claws pricking just enough to remind me of their presence.
"Azzaron—"
"No." He pulls back just enough to speak against me. "No words. Just feel."
His tongue circles my clit with precision that speaks of centuries of practice. When he adds fingers, stretching me,I arch off the bed. He growls approval, the sound vibrating through me, and increases his pace. My hands find his horns, gripping for anchor as he takes me apart with methodical intensity.
"Please—"
"Please what?" But he knows. His fingers curve inside me, finding that spot that makes me see stars. "Please stop? Please more? Please acknowledge that you matter enough for me to kill for?"
"Please—" I can't finish. Can't think. There is only the clinical precision of his mouth and the absolute authority of his hands. He is not seducing me; he is dismantling me.
He pushes me to the edge, then holds me there. Suspended. Desperate. When I sob his name, he finally lets me fall. The orgasm crashes through me, and I'm drowning in it, drowning in him.
"You feel better than in the dream." The words growl out against my core as I climax, his tongue still working me through it.
Everything stops.
Dream? Which dream?
Those dreams that felt too real. Too specific. Where he touched me without touching. Where he knew exactly what I wanted before I did. Where he disappeared right before our lips met.
"You were there." Not a question. My body still shakes from orgasm, but my mind goes sharp. "In my dreams. You were actually there."
He pulls back, mouth wet with me, eyes burning gold. His silence is confession enough.
