Page 53 of Princess of Thorns and Ruin

I freeze at the tight squeeze in my belly.

“Is that an order or a request?” I grunt, about ready to plunge into that bathwater myself.

She slides out of the tub, bubbles tumbling down her smooth skin. “I learned—I want to try something.”

Water sloshes to the carpet as she prowls forward, and our gazes lock. The glide of her wet fingers tracing my jugular sparks a trail of goosebumps along my neck, her touch heavier somehow. Her blue eyes gleam in the night, flecks of silver and gold hidden within them.

Mesmerizing. Hypnotic.

Suddenly, it feels like my heart is being regulated by the fire in her eyes and the wind in her breath. Like if she was to turn away from me in that moment, it would simply stop beating, dead and useless.

Like it exists solely to please her.

My lids flutter, my limbs suddenly numb. “What are you doing?”

She presses her tongue behind her front teeth, and the corners of her mouth quirk up. “Relax, Leo.”

Her teeth dive inside my flesh, and instead of a painful sting, my whole body throbs in pleasure the way I imagine a woman feels when her lover’s cock enters her—when she’s so wet she can’t think.

“Don’t—Oh, God.”

Arielle draws back to observe me. “It’s working, isn’t it? It feels good?”

It’s more than good. It’s…deep and explosive.

My cock throbs, the intensity of it almost painful. If she were to get on her knees and suck me inside her mouth, I’d cum on the spot. She undoes my jeans with nervous hands before taking another sip from my jugular, standing on her tiptoes.

I growl, ready to beg for more as she palms me through my thin cotton boxers, my hips grinding against her small, perfect hand.

And I hate it. I hate how the pleasure slithers inside every single one of my cells and makes them vibrate to a whole new frequency. I hate how supple her waist feels and how hard I am.

I hate myself for wanting her, but I do. Every day, it gets worse, but this is Armageddon. How I am supposed to resist my deepest and darkest urges if she does this.

Shame sears my face, my breaths coming in sharp rasps, my fingers numb. I don’t want to lose myself. If I fuck her now, I’ll vanish, and there will be nothing left of Leo Callas but the slave.

I can’t let that happen.

Even for a moment of bliss. Even for her.

I squeeze the nape of her neck hard—hard enough for the insidious pleasure to stop. “Make it hurt.”

“Mmm?” She looks up at me, a crimson drop tucked at the corner of her mouth.

I cup her face with my hands, desperate to taste her lips, the empty shard in my soul screaming at me to kiss and fuck her until we’re even, until I’ve used her body as roughly as she’s used mine and made her scream in all the ways my heart screams when she’s around.

I dip in for a damned, angry kiss, unable to deny myself any longer. My tongue slips inside her mouth, full of rage and grievances. The violence of the kiss betrays how much I’ve fallen for her and the hatred I feel toward what she stands for—what she is. She draws a sharp intake of breath before she melts in my arms, rising to the occasion and meeting every urgent lick and graze with her own, her hand still teasing me through my underwear.

I finally come up for air, more furious than I’ve ever been, feeling like the pleasure of her bite chopped away one more piece of me. “Damn it, Arielle!”

She brings a hand to her lips. “You kissed me.”

“I shouldn’t have. I was confused by your new… skills.” I rip her off me, and she staggers backwards, her beautiful face twisted with the sting of rejection and the fire of anger as I rebutton my jeans.

And I run.

I run until I reach the interior courtyard. The sun is about to appear over the horizon, the sky streaked with high-flying clouds. The cool spring air acts as a salve to my molten skin, and blood finally returns to my brain, my muscles burning.

Garrett Beaumont, the oldest of the three Beaumonts, according to Quentin, is sitting by the fountain with a tall, slender companion covered by a hood and cape. They both jump to their feet at my arrival, and I catch a glimpse of a bloody, feminine hand.

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