42
The faeling not only saved me—she brought us somewhere to sleep: a starless, black, secluded cave. The smooth stone is cold beneath my bare feet. My scabbard is heavy in my hand. Raker is a towering shadow behind me, following me for once. Maybe he’s too tired to protest. He hasn’t said a word in an hour. We walk down a tunnel until we reach a circular clearing with a waterfall trickling onto a slab of obsidian rock tilted slightly to the
side, letting it drain somewhere below.
A few feet in front of it sits a bed.
Well, a makeshift one, anyway. The forest nymphs Este summoned managed to find dozens of thick, clean sheets, stacked together to make the most comfortable spot I’ve seen in a long while. All I want is to bury myself in it, and sleep forever, and ask Raker how comfortable the cold stone floor is in the morning. But first, I need to wash the remaining soot and ash away.
He says nothing as I head toward the waterfall in the dress they gave me.
The nymphs’ fabrics are barely there at all, translucent when wet—I’ve seen them—but I’m so grateful for the rush of clean, cold water that I don’t care.
It’s not like Raker will be looking, anyway.
I take my time. I carefully undo my braid. I scrub the cinder from my hair and then my skin, until it’s smooth again. I clean the blood off my sword.
Then, after the evidence of the duel is gone, I sink to my knees. Sit on my heels. Tilt my head up to the water and let it soak my every inch, drops like cold fingers threading through the roots of my hair, smoothing my rough edges, letting me forget, for just a moment, how much of my own blood was shed today. How much more will be shed tomorrow. Tomorrow. The
day I finally face the gods. I sigh and release a fraction of the tension in my stress-coiled bones.
When I’m done, I turn to see Raker standing very still. Watching. In the same place he was ten minutes ago.
His expression is the same as it’s always been—closed off. Heartless.
Cold. But we’ve survived weeks across Starside together. We’ve slayed creatures with claws like swords; we’ve made it out of castle rooms painted red with blood; we’ve survived demons that crawled into our minds. As much as I hate it, and him, I know him. I can see the slight tension in his shoulders. The way the vein down his sword-wielding arm is taut. How his frown doesn’t reach his eyes.
Before, I would have thought he looked disgusted. Now I can see he almost looks pained.
Slowly, I rise. Water drips down the sheer fabric that might as well not even be there at all. He can see everything. Including the thin silver lines like roots down my neck, chest, and arms. Glowing faintly in the light.
And he’s not looking away this time.
“I’m likely going to die tomorrow,” I say, my voice coming out in a
rough whisper.
He doesn’t correct me.
“There’s—there’s one thing I haven’t tried.” I can’t believe the words have left my mouth. The Aris from weeks before is screaming from the past, What are you doing? Don’t humiliate yourself.
But even though I knew from the start that this would kill me, being so close to all too imminent death makes me fearless. It makes me ask for exactly what I want, for the very first time in my life.
I don’t shrink under Raker’s gaze, not the way I have before. I don’t bend under his unrelenting scrutiny.
Because he seems to get my meaning immediately. His frown deepens.
He’s trying hard to look irritated—of course he is. His pride and position and a million other reasons make admitting to wanting to spend a moment with me that isn’t for the good of the quest impossible.
“Are you truly so desperate?” he finally says, his voice harsh. But he’s
said worse. So have I.
“Yes,” I reply.
His mouth was open, likely halfway to another barb, but my response shocks him into silence. It’s always been a duel with us, hurling words like
throwing stars back and forth, clashing swords, leveling glares across rooms that end in spilled blood.
Tonight, I’ve laid down my sword. It’s still sitting beneath the falling water, its metal glimmering.
Still, he looks wary, like he’s expecting this is a ruse, a way to kill him while I can. A way to finally lay claim to his own glorious blade.
I slowly uncurl my fingers, until he’s staring at my palms. “Unarmed.” I turn all the way around, for good measure. There’s no concealing anything beneath these sheer, wet fabrics.
When I face him again, his hands are in fists, knuckles white, veins taut.
He’s standing so still, I’m not sure he’s breathing.
Harlan Raker is a famed, merciless warrior—and right now, he looks every inch as deadly as his reputation. For even though I’m unarmed, he’s armed to the teeth.
I should be afraid. I should be ashamed of myself. I take a slow step
toward him.
He doesn’t move a single inch.
I keep moving. When I reach him, I lift my chin, leaving any trace of emotion or anticipation out of my voice. “I hate you. This wouldn’t change anything.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” he spits back at me.
Good.
He could leave, he could go to bed himself, he could do a thousand things, but here he is, looking at me, as if he’s waiting. As if he doesn’t think I’ll have the nerve to do something next.
I stare him down the same way I have every other time he’s challenged me. Instead of making for my sword, though, I move to unclasp my top, and his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Stopping me.
At first, I think he’s going to snarl and reject my advances. Or order me to remain mostly clothed while he has me against a wall.
But then his hand drags down the wet fabric, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him truly lose control. Because he looks like he hates himself for touching me, but it also looks like he can’t stop.
His rough fingers slide down my breast, and I’m not breathing. His callused thumb rubs across my hardened nipple, and I pinch my lips together to keep from making any sound at all.
He doesn’t need to know how much I like this. He doesn’t need to feel how long I’ve wanted this.
Our encounter underground could be blamed on the fire demon. We were in the dark, with our eyes closed. This … this is different.
He removes his hand, and my body shivers at the loss of heat.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he says, and I think he’s going to leave me here, aching. Wanting. But then, in a flash, he reaches around and tears the buttons at my neck clean off. They bounce somewhere far away, clinking against stone. My dress slides down my body, onto the floor.
His eyes seem to go wholly black.
I shiver under his unrelenting gaze. It’s cold in here, and I’m wet, small droplets of water running down my heated skin, across the markings he can now see clear as day. Since I got them, it’s been instinct to hide, to shrink away from notice, but I don’t move to cover myself. I don’t do anything that would make him think of me as weak. Because even if we’re really doing this, he’s still my enemy.
The way he’s looking at me, taking in every inch as if I exist for him alone to study, shouldn’t send a jolt of need right to the core of me, but I am beyond shame. I am beyond reason.
His knuckles get even whiter as he stares and stares, gaze locked onto my chest, heavy with need and peaked from the cold. My thighs clench together, and that’s where his eyes drop next.
This is purely physical. Raker hasn’t ever let anyone kiss him, so I’m not expecting anything tender.
I’m not surprised when he says in a dark voice that seems ripped from the seams of his self-control, “Get on your hands and knees.”
Fuck. We’re really doing this.
I swallow. He traces the movement with his eyes. He’s focusing far too closely on my neck. Carefully, very carefully, gaze never leaving his, I lower myself onto the sheets. I turn my back to him.
For a moment, I wait for the sound of his sword scraping out of his scabbard. I wait for him to betray me and slay me while I’m at my most
vulnerable.
There is a sound of metal— His armor. He’s taking it off, piece by piece.
“I said your hands and knees,” he says, his voice a dark and brutal command.
I bend over. Do as he says. I really am desperate, aren’t I? Yes. Right now, yes. I’m desperate and aching. These weeks have been about survival, but right now, before my almost-guaranteed death, I want this. My back arches and a shiver licks down my spine. I’m more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life.
I swear I hear a barely restrained growl behind me, but his voice is cold and cruel as ever as he says, “Look at you. Already gleaming and ready for me.”
I clench my jaw, staring straight ahead. The sheets rustle with movement.
My skin prickles at his approaching heat. “No one has touched me in weeks. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Weeks?” he says, suddenly stilling behind me. If I didn’t know better, I
would say he sounds jealous.
“Weeks,” I reply.
His fingers dig roughly into the sides of my hips as he drags me back toward him. His hands are burning hot.
Then, without any words or warning, the full heat of him is against me.
And I’m glad he can’t see my face, because my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head at the contact. I can’t see him, but I can feel him, and his sheer size against me— I should have known. Should have suspected. I felt it, that night at the ball. Though now, with him right against my entrance, the clear difference in size has me sweating.
I brace myself, waiting for a flash of pain. Wondering if there is any way to do this that doesn’t ruin me.
But it’s almost gentle, the way he pushes in. And in.
My every nerve seems to flicker on, and this time I do gasp at the fullness, at the stretch, as it becomes immediately too tight. I don’t expect him to stop, but he does. He does, until I can breathe through it.
Then he begins to pull my hips back, inching me farther and farther onto him. Slowly. It happens slowly, slowly, until every thought and feeling and sensation is narrowed to that searing point of contact as he pushes in and in,
and, somehow he’s still going.
He pushes in again. Again.
Until I’m so full of him, I can’t think around it, can’t feel beyond him, I can’t get a full breath.
And then, just when I’m wondering how this is possibly going to work, he starts to move.
I curse into the sheets. “Did you have to be so big? I can feel you in my fucking teeth.”
He makes what seems like a tortured sound behind me, but a moment later, his voice is smooth as velvet as he says, “And I can feel you trying not to scream.”
He’s right. Every part of me is clenched tight, because if I let go, if I give in wholly to this building pleasure, I’m going to scream, I’m going to whimper, I’m going to beg, and I’m not going to be able to stop.
He’s going to know he has me all but ensnared, and I can’t have that happen. He can’t know that I’ve never felt anything like this, and that I hate —hate—that it’s coming from him.
My voice is strained as I manage to say, “No. Not at all.”
He laughs darkly behind me, and the sound makes my skin tighten across all the sensitive places I want to be touched. Everywhere is so raw, so needy. The pain has given way completely to a pleasure like melted-down gold, glimmering, sinking down to my core, curling into blinding, building, unrelenting need. He increases his pace, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. “Really? I think you’re lying, Aris. I think you’re a fucking liar.”
I’m surprised I can keep my composure as I say through gritted teeth, “Or maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.”
In a flash, he pulls me up, one hand palming my breast, the other firm against my hip, and the next thrust is so hard, so deep, my shoulders hike up. My lips part with a choked gasp.
He laughs against the top of my head. “Like that?”
I don’t say a word. I seal my mouth shut. And his callused fingers just scrape against my sensitive skin, circling my hardened peak, in slow, languid movements, like he has all the time in the world to wait for my response. My pulse races as those rings get smaller. Closer. He’s getting closer and closer to where I need him, and his pace is inching to a crawl, drawing it out—until his rough thumb finally brushes against my nipple, and I almost whimper. He does it again. He pinches it, and heat floods through me, but I keep my fucking mouth shut.
I don’t want him to know that with just a few simple strokes, he’s worked me into an aching, desperate frenzy. I don’t want him to have that kind of power over me. But I’m fighting a losing battle with the moans crawling up
my throat, and he fucking knows it. He knows exactly what he’s doing, thanks to my body’s own response to this pleasure, and he growls his approval as he feels just how much I like this. It’s obvious. I can hear the proof of my enjoyment with every thrust, but that’s not enough, he wants words, he wants the truth, and he’s going to drag it from my lips with every punishing brush of his fingers. His callused knuckles scrape below the underside of my breast, testing, teasing, wanting me to cry out. Wanting me to break.
I don’t. A moment later, his other hand splays out across my lower abdomen, pressing down hard as he continues to thrust into me—and I see stars. I fight to breathe. He has me pinned against his muscled body, palming my abdomen like he wants to feel himself inside of me, fucking me like he’s trying to rob me of my sanity, and the pressure builds into a rising, blazing wave of need.
Just when I think I can’t possibly feel any better, his fingers slip between
my legs, to the aching core of me, and— Fuck.
A burst of pleasure races through my veins, and my head is falling back against his chest, and I’m making a sound I’ve never made in my life.
“There it is,” he says, deep voice right in my ear. And then, like a reward, his fingers stroke me into a mess of moans and throaty pleas.
It’s official. He has me. Instead of pinned against a wall with a blade at my throat, he has his rough thumb pressed against my sensitive center, and he knows exactly how to make me cry out for him. I do. Again, and again. I can’t help it. He makes a pleased sound. “You’re going to be screaming my name in no time, Aris. And I’m never going to let you forget it.”
The bastard.
But I’m not the only one enjoying this. I can feel the proof of it, the extent of that enjoyment dragging through me, hard as steel. I begin to grind my hips back, arching my spine, meeting him stroke for stroke. I sink down deeper, taking even more of him.
His movements falter. It’s all the encouragement I need. I don’t stop. I grind back onto him, riding him like this, clenching, writhing.
“Fuck,” he snarls right against the crown of my head.
A pleased smile spreads across my face as I realize, for the first time,
Harlan Raker is completely at my mercy.
And I like it.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I wrench myself free, turn, and push him down onto the sheets, and he lets me, even though he’s baring his teeth at me in warning.
I pin him down. I remember his promise. That soon enough, I’ll be screaming his name. I press my hands against his chest and say, “You’re going to be screaming mine, Harlan.” I must be imagining it, but I swear he shivers.
Then I sink down onto him, taking every brutal inch, and we both curse at the same time.
Fuck. I feel so full it’s hard to breathe. I’ll never get used to the stretch, to the tight fit, but still … I want more. His eyes widen as he watches me begin to move on him, like he can’t look away. I really don’t know what I’m doing, but when I tilt forward, bracing my hands on his hard chest, and find a place that sends a jolt up my spine, I start to move faster, chasing it, wringing every ounce of pleasure I can from him.
His hand reaches toward me, as if on instinct, but he stops himself. Fists the sheets instead. He might as well be touching me, though. His gaze is casting flames. I can feel the heat of it on my chest as I ride him, on my stomach as I arch back, on my face as my lips part with pleasure.
I look at him too. His wide shoulders. Pale, tattooed skin over rippling muscle, unmarred by even a single scar, as if nothing has ever gotten close
to hurting him.
At least, that used to be true.
There’s a new mark, across his throat. One I gave him.
We’re enemies. I’ve hated him for years. We both have wanted each other dead. He’s right. We really shouldn’t be doing this, but I also don’t ever want to be doing anything else. Nothing has ever felt so good, so full, so all-encompassing. My every nerve is sensitive, prickling, fire-swept, embers dancing across my skin.
My nails rake down his abs, and he doesn’t make a move to stop me. My head falls back as I chase my pleasure, as I grind against him, as I move with abandon.
It’s not enough, though. I want more, want to feel him deeper, everywhere.
And I can’t pretend any longer. There’s an ache within me, growing and desperate. It’s been building for a while, this fire between us, this inevitable battle. I don’t care if this is wrong, or if I hate him—I want this. I want it so
badly it scares me. “Raker, please,” I say, willing to go on my knees, willing to beg for this. I don’t even know what I want, but something tells me he knows exactly how to give it to me.
His hand moves to my throat. At first, I think he might squeeze it, but all he does is trace his thumb up and down my pulse and say in a voice forged from pure and utter need, “Say it again.”
Fine. If he wants me to beg, I will.
“Please,” I say, my voice raspy and out of breath.
But he shakes his head. His own voice is strained. “No. My name. Say it.”
Satisfaction spreads through me. He’s not the only one who holds power here. I see it in the desperate flicker in his eye. I see it in the way his muscles are flexing as if he’s holding himself back, as if he too is afraid to let himself go completely.
He might be the greatest knight on Stormside. He might not have a single mark on his armor. But right now, he’s looking at me like I can ruin him.
And he might beg for it.
I slow my movements. He watches, transfixed, as my t-o-n-g-u-e darts out to l-i-c-k my lips. Taking my time, I drag my hands down his muscled ch**t.
Then I bend down low, and say slowly, right above his mouth, “Harlan Raker.”
He flips me over in a flash, his h**d curl**g beneath my knee, pulling one of my l*gs into an angle against his ch**t, and then he starts to f**k me at an unyielding, unforgiving pace that has me s******g.
I arch against his body, my ni**les scraping against his hard ch**t every time he slams into me, my toes curling. This is Harlan Raker unleashed.
My spine is a bolt of lightning, gleaming with nerves, sparks spreading with every brutal stroke. His c**k drags against a place so deep, so sensitive, I’m whimpering. I’m clawing at his chest.
My head falls back, but he t*ts it forward again so that my eyes meet his.
“Aris,” he says, his voice a deep rumble I can feel in my bones. I nearly break, hearing my name on his l*ps like this.
“I,” he says, slamming into me again, dragging me across the sheets.
“Hate,” he says, punctuating the word with another brut*l thr**t. “You.” He slams again.
He’s saying it as if he’s trying to remind himself of that fact.
And the way he’s looking at me … he means it.
He hates me the same way I hate him. He hates that this feels so good.
He hates that we both know it. Because it’s undeniable. This fire, flaming, raging between us is undeniable.
“I hate you too,” I say, breathless, meaning it in all the same ways.
We glare at each other as he lifts my hips and takes me deeper, eyes widening, mouths tightening, neither wanting to break first. Neither wanting to admit anything other than hatred.
Then his gaze suddenly falters. He looks down and stops for just a moment. I see the surprise flicker over him and trace his line of sight. He’s looking at my marks.
The sensitive silver markings along my skin are gleaming brighter than they ever have before.
His fingers dig into my hips. He rips his gaze from my markings and lifts my other leg. My ankles lock behind him.
And he fucks me like he hates me. Like he hates this. Like he hates that he’s uttering a string of curses into the crown of my head. His movements are getting more desperate, rougher, hitting a place that makes me bite my lip, heating my blood until it’s boiling.
Everything in this world has always seemed so limited, but this feeling, this pleasure, this fullness seems endless.
Until he slams into me one final time, and the pleasure crests and shatters. Together. We shatter together, our gazes locked, until he closes his eyes sharply and curses so loudly, it echoes through the cave.
The cave. I almost forgot where we were. How we got here. Who, exactly, I was doing this with.
His eyes open again. We’re staring at each other, both panting, chests meeting. We’re waiting for who is going to make the next move.
Embarrassment and shame sink through me. Maybe we shouldn’t have done this. I feel so raw. So exposed. And he’s never going to let me forget it.
I open my mouth, and Harlan Raker does the last thing I would ever expect — He kisses me. His lips crash against mine, and I gasp, then melt as his tongue traces my parted lips. It’s not gentle. It’s punishing, the way he kisses me, like he wants to swallow my breaths and words and protests.
Like he didn’t just tell me he hates me. Like he didn’t say, days before, that this very act is more intimate than having sex and that he would never allow someone to get that close to him. He’s doing it now. Very thoroughly. He’s
biting my bottom lip so hard he’s drawing blood, and then he’s licking that too, and he’s stroking my teeth and the top of my mouth, like he’s trying to taste and savor every single inch of me.
He’s still hard inside me.
I start to move on him greedily, the ache building again, and he doesn’t hesitate. He starts to take me with long, brutal strokes, matching the pace of his tongue in my mouth, and I’m on fire. I’m burning.
Heat floods my body, something in my blood calling to his, and this— this is different.
This is us giving up all pretense that we didn’t both want this, need this.
I gasp for air when his lips slip down my neck, licking, sucking, teeth scraping against my pulse. His hand slides between us, and he bites down just as his fingers find my center again, then curses as I tighten around him, a scraping sound leaving my lips.
Then the world tilts. In one smooth movement, he’s standing, and gripping my ass, and then he’s hauling me up against the wall.
The stone is cool and smooth behind my back as he fucks me against it, his mouth still hot against my neck. He takes his time there, on the sensitive place between my neck and shoulder. There’s another sting of teeth, and then my back arches off the wall at a blinding flash of pleasure. He snarls his approval, and then he’s groaning, and I’m whimpering as he takes me deeper and rougher, like he’s still trying to get more of me.
I’m beyond words right now. I’m only panting and insistent movements as my legs wrap around him, heels digging into his back, meeting him stroke for stroke, riding out this pleasure on his cock. He takes me again and again, shifting my hips and changing angles, each thrust tightening this coil of need within me, until it’s wound almost painfully tight.
“Harlan,” I say, my voice a ragged plea, and his hand moves between us.
With a single brush of his callused thumb, my body bows off the wall as my world shatters into a thousand glimmering steel pieces. I gasp and then his mouth is on mine again, claiming it, swallowing every pant and cry, and I cling to him as he takes me through every shuddering wave, and then again, like he’s trying to wring every bit of pleasure from my body.
It’s still not enough. Not even close. “I need—”
“I know what you need,” he says, and then my feet hit the ground, and he’s spinning me and pressing me against the cold wall, and lifting me to my toes by my hips, and filling me and—
“Fucking gods, Raker,” I cry out against the wall as he takes me hard and fast.
One of his massive hands curls around the back of my head, pressing my
cheek to the stone.
“No. Fucking me, Aris. Only me.”
And then he fucks me harder, like he’s trying to mark me, trying to claim me, and I arch my hips back and meet his every stroke, doing the same.
This. This is what I’ve needed for weeks—the desires I couldn’t even put into words. A pleasure I didn’t even know was possible. This hatred between us has blurred and burned into something far more complicated, endless duels that have all led to this.
We’ve fought and battled and argued this entire journey and now every ounce of tension is being worked out, thoroughly, as if this is its own duel, its own language, and my entire body is going taut, then loose, and I’m tightening around him, and he’s groaning. He’s gripping my hips, and the world could be crumbling around me, and I wouldn’t even notice, I’m too lost in this pulsing, insistent, desperate madness. He’s giving me everything I need without me even having to ask for it.
One hand still firm on my hip, his knuckles slowly trail up the curve of my side, to my waist, his long fingers opening one by one, curling around the base of my ribs, then gently stroking the shape of me, like I’m a map he wants to memorize.
Chills erupt across my heated skin, and he touches all of them, feeling how my body responds to his, learning how to make me prickle even more, studying me not like an enemy he wants to conquer, but like an opponent he wants to surrender to. His thrusts are hard and fast, hammering into me like he wants me to see stars, but his fingers are featherlight. He’s touching my body with the care and reverence he’s only ever reserved for his sword, like I’m more precious than its metal, like I’m more dangerous than its edge, like he wants to claim me more than any other weapon.
Then his hand is in my hair, and he groans as he touches the long strands, rubbing them between his fingers. “I was right,” he says, curving over me, mouth at my ear. “This is dangerous.” It’s what he said in the Traveling City, when he saw it down for the first time. He meant because it was a risk during dueling.
Now, he takes all of it in his fist—and pulls. My lips part. His grip is light, not enough to hurt at all, but the possessive move makes my mind
spin. Because this isn’t about either of us giving in. I see that now. No, this is just like when our blades meet. Two equal forces, coming together. A push and pull that merges into a perfect joining.
This pleasure is gleaming, ruinous, and I know in my blood it wouldn’t be like this with anyone else. I don’t just want this. I want him.
My arms reach back, wrapping around his neck, arching against him, nipples still pressed to the cold wall, pinned between him and the cave, and he molds to me, until his entire body is flush with mine. I’m on my toes, his legs against my thighs, keeping me upright. His hands are back on my hips, fucking me onto him, finding a place that makes a jolt of pleasure race up my spine with every thrust, and I choke out his name. He does it again.
Faster. My eyes close tightly against the surging wave of pleasure.
“Like that?” he says.
This time, I nod against him.
That’s not good enough. He reaches for my throat, thumb gently stroking where his teeth sank into my skin, and says, “I need your words, Aris,” his deep voice echoing, vibrating through my blood. “Please.”
Fuck. I never thought I would hear him beg.
So, I give him what he wants.
“Yes,” I say, looking up at him. His forehead is leaned against the cave wall. He’s staring down at me like he doesn’t ever want to look anywhere else. His mouth is just inches away. “Just like that, Harlan.”
His fingers dig into my hip and throat—and then he unleashes, dragging against that gleaming place in a ruinous, unyielding pace. I cry out, lightning spearing through my veins, and he growls his approval. He keeps going and going like it’s his sole purpose in life to get me over the edge, like he wants to test just how much pleasure I can take.
I need to taste him. We’re facing the same direction, and my head is tilted up, his is down, but my fingers fist his hair, and I pull his mouth to mine, and— This angle shouldn’t work. But my tongue brushes his lips and he groans when it meets his. The kiss is messy, and insistent, and he’s holding me to his mouth by the throat, he’s tasting me like he can’t get enough, and I could die from this. From the perfect stretch of him desperately filling every aching part of me, from the sound of his moans in my mouth, from the all- consuming feel of him. He kisses me until I can’t think, I can’t breathe, and then I suck on his bottom lip, licking and stroking, biting him like he bit
me, marking him, until another wave of pleasure rolls through me and I release him.
His eyes have darkened into ink. He looks half-crazed. Enraptured. He looks a moment from losing his fucking mind, like I control his sanity, and I’m about to snap its final string.
“Aris,” he says, his voice a tortured rasp. “You will be the fucking end of me.”
“Harlan,” I breathe. “If only.” Our gazes are locked. I throw my head back. His name is on my lips as my desire crests.
Then I’m falling back onto my heels again. Before I can miss his fullness, he’s turning me back around, and lifting me to his height, and my legs are around him, and he’s pushing into me again, and— His mouth crashes against mine in a brutal kiss that’s all teeth and smothered gasps, and this, this is how I want to finish, with me facing him.
I’m close, and he seems to know it. His hand reaches down, thumb stroking me toward the edge of this cliff, until I’m on its brink, trembling with pleasure that’s ready to pull me under. I try to fight it, give myself more time, bucking my hips, chasing this desire until its very end.
Now, it’s his back against the wall. His forehead is pressed to mine. He’s not even moving anymore, he’s just watching me ride him, watching me take what I need, watching my thighs tremble as I stave off my release, as I curse because this feels too fucking good.
I try to take him deeper, but it’s hard at this angle, and— I don’t even have to say a word. All it takes is a fold in my brow, and he’s sliding to the floor, pulling me down with him, and I’m bracing my hands on his wide shoulders as I move on him. Better. Much better. He’s curved, leaned close, watching me ride him needily, desperately. I’m panting right
against his mouth.
“I still hate you,” I gasp.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I say, breathing hard. “I hate you so much.”
His hands tighten around my hips.
“Good. Hate me harder, Aris.”
The same words he said as we dueled. Hate. Me. Harder.
I do. I ride him as hard as I can, and he groans, watching me take him, over and over, letting me use him. I lean forward and grind against his hard
muscles, chasing my pleasure. My hands are in his hair, his face is just inches away.
Not close enough. I want him to flood my senses, I want to feel him, smell him, taste him. I duck my head—and slowly run my tongue along the thin line across his throat. The only scar he has.
A reminder.
He groans. I feel him twitch inside me.
“Aris,” he says, my name like a prayer on his lips.
And I shatter. I pulse around him, crying out, and he seals his mouth to mine, swallowing the sound. He starts to take over then, fucking me faster than before, in hard, brutal strokes, like he can read me, like he knows this is exactly what I want from him. Then he stands in one smooth motion, holding me with what seems like no effort, presses me against the wall and fucks the sanity and attitude and anger out of me, never even breaking our kiss. He tastes me like he’s starving, like he needs this, and when I suck on his tongue, then rake his bottom lip through my teeth, he groans and breaks too. I feel him, pulsing within me, our gazes locked, our mouths now just inches apart. We’re panting, sharing breath, studying each other.
Fuck.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to be the cure to everything I never knew I needed.
This was supposed to be quick, and meaningless. But— His previously unmarred chest is now marked with long lines where I clawed at him. I can feel blood hot against my lip where he bit me. My neck is tender. There’s an undeniable soreness between my legs and liquid dripping down my thigh.
We’ve ruined each other. And by the time we finally go to sleep in the pile of sheets, we’ve ruined each other even more.
When I wake up, my body is sore. Aching. Sensitive everywhere.
And Harlan is gone.
He took my sword.
He betrayed me, just like I always knew he would.