Page 82 of The Reaper's Vow
“No.” I catch her wrists, pinning them high above her head in one hand. “But don’t expect me to be gentle when you look at me like this.”
My free hand trails down her body, tugging the hem of my shirt higher along her frame, the fabric gliding over warm skin until her hip is bare.
“The calls can wait,” I rasp. “Everything can wait.”
I let her hands go, pulling my shirt over my head in one rough motion. Her gaze drags over me, lingering on the tattoos that brand me as my father’s son.
“I love the way you look at me,” I admit, fingers working the buttons of the shirt she wears—my shirt. “Like I’m worth wanting instead of worth fearing.”
“You are worth wanting.” She lays her hands over mine as the fabric parts. “You’re mine.”
The ferocity in her words rakes through me, my wolf throwing back his head in savage triumph. Button by button, more of her skin is revealed, the traces of my bond standing out against her flesh. By the time the shirt slips from her shoulders, I’m already straining, every nerve alight with the need to have her again.
“Beautiful.” My hands skim over her ribs, her waist, the flare of her hips. “Every inch of you.”
I lift her again, carrying her the few steps to my bed. This time I'm not gentle as I lay her down, my body covering hers with predatory intent. She arches beneath me, her hands fisting in the sheets as I trail my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin.
“I can’t get enough of you,” I growl against her collarbone, my mouth trailing lower, tasting every inch of her. “Hours buried inside you, and I’m still starving for more.”
Her response is a breathy moan that vibrates through our connection, doubling the sensation. I feel her pleasure as if it's my own, amplified and reflected until I can't tell where I end and she begins.
My hands map every curve, every hollow, relearning territory I’ve already discovered but need to possess all over again. When my fingers find the slick warmth between her thighs, she bucks against me, nails biting crescents into my shoulders.
“Please,” she gasps, and the sound of her begging makes something savage unfurl in my chest.
I don’t make her wait. Can’t make her wait. My fingers drive into her wetness while my thumb teases the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out. She’s already so responsive, so achingly ready for me.
“Look at me. I want to see every flicker of pleasure when you break for me. Every drop of it is mine.”
Her stare meets mine, heavy-lidded, glazed with need. I add another finger, curling them deep as my thumb circles her swollen peak. She clutches at me, slick and tight, the sounds she makes—broken gasps, desperate little cries—driving me to the edge of madness.
“That’s it,” I rasp, watching her come undone as tension coils tighter and tighter in her body. “Let me feel it. Show me what I do to you.”
The connection between us surges with shared sensation, her ecstasy flooding my system until I’m drowning in it. When she finally shatters, sobbing my name as her body convulses around my fingers, I feel her orgasm as if it were my own.
But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I pull free, ignoring her protest, and fumble with my jeans. Denim scrapes my oversensitive skin as I shove them down and kick them away with too much force.
“I need to be inside you,” I growl, settling between her thighs. “Need to feel you grip me.”
She nods, reaching for me, guiding me home. The first slide into her makes us both groan. I can feel everything she feels—every nerve ending sparking as I fill her completely. I pause, buried to the hilt, fighting for control as sensation tears through our link. Her body clutches me like a velvet fist, so perfect I can barely think.
“Move,” she begs, nails dragging down my back hard enough to draw fire in their wake. “Please, Damien.”
I don't need to be asked twice. I pull back slowly, savoring the drag of friction, before driving forward again with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall. The sound should probably concern me—my father's compound has excellent acoustics—but I'm beyond caring who hears us.
I feel her body's response to every thrust, every shift in angle, every change in rhythm. It's overwhelming, experiencing her pleasure alongside my own until I can't tell where I end and she begins. When I hit that spot deep inside her that makes her back arch off the mattress, I feel the spike of sensation through both our nervous systems simultaneously.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my rhythm stuttering as the dual sensations threaten to overwhelm me. “I can feel everything you feel.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back as she meets each thrust with desperate urgency. “Don'tstop,” she pants, her head thrown back against the pillows. “I'm so close?—”
I can feel how close she is through our connection—the tension coiling tighter in her core, the way her inner walls flutter around me. It drives me harder, faster, deeper. It’s not enough. Nowhere near enough.
“Turn over,” I command.
She blinks up at me, momentarily confused.
