Page 112 of Filthy Royal

Shoving his hand into his pants, he tugged out his cock.

Already leaking cum, he gripped it hard. Hells, he was almost ready to go off. So damned hard; the vein pulsed along the shaft, his cock an engorged, angry purplish red.

Eyes closing, he rested his head against the door and rubbed two fingers along his shaft, the memory of those same fingers sliding through her sweet, perfect cream making his cock jerk in his palm.

Fuck, he hoped some of the mouthwatering juice from her pussy remained on his fingers, enough to coat his cock and mark it.

He was that fucking gone, that fucking desperate for some small part of her to stay with him.

Forearm flexing, Damien worked his fist faster; the image of her beautiful face and body in that room playing over and over in his mind.

He’d spent four planetary rotations fighting to forget, banishing images of her every time they intruded, and now look at him.

Because nothing compared to the carnal, vivid perfection of the real thing—the flesh-and-blood, maddening, stubborn, spirited Scarlett on her hands and knees, dress torn, hair wild, arching into his touch.

For one moment, he let himself believe she truly wanted him too. That they were as they’d once been; flawless and filthy and stupidly in love.

He came with a low groan, body shuddering as white ropes of cum spurted onto the ground.

And knew he was in trouble when, even after that, he stayed hard as granite.

Because his cock still wanted the real thing. His damned heart too.

But that had been an illusion, and he needed to remember that.

With a curse, he struck the back of his head against the door twice more in punishment.

Damien shoved off the door and then grabbed a cleaning tablet from the extra supplies they’d stacked outside the room—just as well, as Scarlett’s gift had tossed the ones inside all the hells around. After breaking it open, he rubbed it onto his hands and let it seep into his skin and clothes, climbing his arms and spreading as it warmed. Twenty-five heartbeats later, he and his leathers were clean.

Not as effective as the cleaning devices on his shuttle, but still good in a pinch.

He picked up one of their extra water skins and, jaw tight, dumped its contents over the mess he’d made on the ground and kicked dirt over that. No point in traumatizing the kid more than he already was. Or in letting anyone see just how fucking weak he was when it came to this female.

Damien used what remained of the water on his hands and face to get rid of the slight sanitizer scent left behind by the cleaning tablet.

Unfortunately, nothing could wash away the need still churning inside. Or the overwhelming urge to head back into that room and pick up where he’d left off.

He paced instead, forcing himself to picture what he usually did: Crex’s empty eyes and broken neck. The burns on Maddox’s body. His baby sister still out there alone and scared without Skolov protection. Darvish, Kadon Stormhart, and how Scarlett had once told him she loved him before fucking him over.

But now those images warred with others.

The defiance and spirit in her stare. That look of anguish in her eyes when she noticed the fated-mate marks hadn’t returned. The beauty of her responses to him, the lust she couldn’t deny.

And her confessions…

No one’s ever made me feel the way you do.

I. Never. Stopped. Caring. For. You.

He knew he shouldn’t believe a single word out of her gorgeous lips, and yet—

A cry came from within.

Instantly alert, Damien wrenched the door open and stalked inside, claws extended and eyes searching for any threat or intruder—even as the sane part of him knew that was impossible.

As expected, all he found was Scarlett: fast asleep, curled on her side, one cuffed arm tucked beneath her head while the other stretched over her temple, the soft curve of her hip making his gut tighten, his cock twitch once more.

Fuck him.

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