Page 94 of To Charm a Dark Prince

She wanted to feel him.

He nudged her legs apart, and before she could even register that they had moved, he was sitting on his heels and she was once more straddling his lap, his desire pressing against her.

Tentatively, almost worried that she was doing something wrong, she slipped her hand between them and wrapped it around him. She groaned at the feeling of the heat of him in her palm. He snarled against her lips, kissing her harder as she began to slowly stroke him.

All thoughts of right and wrong were tossed out of her mind. She wanted him. She needed him. When he broke the kiss finally, she could barely breathe. But she managed to whisper two words. “Mordred, please…”

He threw her back to the sheets, a clawed gauntlet resting over her throat, pinning her there. Not enough to hurt—not enough to even restrict her air. But enough that she knew that he could. And that was enough for her. She whimpered, writhing beneath him. He hooked one leg over his other arm and leaned forward.

He was there, pressing against her. Waiting. Waiting for her to protest. To change her mind. His gaze, lidded and dark with his own need, caught hers.

She nodded once.

He thrust his hips forward with a snap.

And her mind went white from pleasure. It might have been painful, the way he stretched her—filled her—pushed her past what she thought her limits should have been as he drove into her with an unflinching drive, fulfilling her request that he not take pity on her.

This was what she had wanted during their last training session. And what he had wanted too. To leave her bruised. But this time, she knew they would both be satisfied.

He continued to press forward until he was buried in her to the hilt, pressing his weight on her as if to dig even deeper. She turned her head to the side and let out a cry, arching her back, wanting to feel his hand around her throat press harder.

“Oh, firefly…” He moaned against her as he pulled back slowly, almost until nothing was left, before pressing forward with the same slow, unstoppable momentum.

He felt like a machine. Methodical and unwavering. Filling her to the point where the stretch was a wonderful deep ache before nearly abandoning her in full. It made her head reel.

It felt so damn good she thought she might implode.

Hopefully, I don’t burst into flames.

But it wasn’t enough. “Please—” she whispered to him, her hands resting on his arms.

He shifted his weight onto his knees, towering over her, one hand still wrapped around her throat, the other holding onto her waist as he obeyed her unfinished plea.

Then she met the warlord. The dread tyrant. The Prince in Iron. He drove into her, again and again, tempo and pressure never relenting, only growing, as he unleashed himself on her. And time after time, her mind went white-hot with pleasure as her body could only struggle to catch up with the onslaught of sensation that ripped through her in waves.

She could barely cling to him, hold on for dear life, as he growled deep in his chest over her. How long it went on, she had no idea. She only came back to reality when his thrusts became harder and more erratic. He let go of her throat to grasp her waist with both hands, picking her up and driving her onto him as he slammed his hips to hers, joining her in a crescendo of ecstasy that left her gasping.

He collapsed over her, his forehead against the pillow beside her, his body twitching in the aftermath of what they had done. “Gwen—”

She turned his head to hers and kissed him. She could taste the salt of his sweat against her lips. Running a hand through his hair again, she decided she loved the feel of it. The feel of him.

Come what may, she’d cherish this moment.

Wordlessly, he rolled onto his side next to her, and draped an arm over her, holding her close. She knew he had a hard time sleeping—but she hoped he slept deep. Lying there beside him, she let her breathing grow long, and slow. Let him think she was sleeping.

And she waited.

Waited to betray him.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

And she wondered if she’d ever forgive herself.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Gwen waited hours—seriously hours—lying there in bed waiting, before Mordred, who was clearly a light sleeper, rolled onto his back and she felt like she could move without disturbing him. She slipped carefully from the sheets and began searching the room as quietly as she could.

She could probably try to get to the Crystal and destroy it while he was sleeping, but she honestly didn’t know if trying to melt something he had made would wake him up. She knew she’d probably need a decent amount of time to destroy it—time that hopefully the potion would give her.

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