His hands cup my face again, tilting me up for another deep, consuming kiss. This one is less about question and answer, more about possession and surrender. My hands skate over his bare chest, learning the texture of him. I can feel his heart hammering against my palm, a wild rhythm that matches my own.
The bond is not a separate thing anymore. It is the electricity arcing where my skin meets his. It is the shared gasp when my thumb brushes a particular scar. It is the way I know, withoutknowing how, that he wants to lay me down on the nearby sofa, and the way my body arches in anticipation of it.
He guides me backward, his mouth never leaving mine, until my knees hit the cushions. I sink down, pulling him with me. He follows, bracing himself above me, a powerful shadow blotting out the dim magelight. The weight of him, the delicious pressure of his hips settling between my thighs, draws a moan from deep in my chest. I can feel him, hard and insistent through our remaining clothes, and a fresh wave of liquid heat pools low in my belly.
“Zeidan,” I breathe, my hands sliding down the corded muscles of his back.
“Say it again,” he whispers against my jaw, trailing kisses down to the neckline of my shift.
“Zeidan.” It’s a sigh, a prayer.
He hooks a finger under the strap of my shift and pulls it down, following the path with his mouth. His lips trails down from my neck to my stomach, I cry out, my back bowing off the sofa.
The air is cool on my bare skin, but only for a second. Then his mouth is on me again, hot and wet and insistent. His hands slide from my waist, tracing the curve of my spine, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
The bond isn’t just humming now; it’s singing, a resonant chord struck deep within my core, vibrating through every nerve ending until my skin feels too tight, too sensitive.
This is it. No turning back.
My own hands are moving, driven by a need that’s as much the bond as it is my own. Each kiss is a brand. His teeth scrape lightly over my pulse point, and I gasp, my fingers tangling in his dark hair.
“Zeidan…”
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my collarbone, his breath searing my damp skin.
“You know I won’t.”
A low, hungry sound vibrates from his chest. His mouth goes lower again and closes over my breast, tongue swirling around the peaked nipple before drawing it deep. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that arcs from my breast to my core, clenching tight. I cry out. He switches his attention to the other breast, lavishing it with the same devastating focus, his hand cupping and kneading the first. The dual sensation is maddening, perfect. The bond is a living conduit between us, amplifying every touch, every gasp, until I can’t tell where his pleasure ends and mine begins.
I writhe beneath him, my hips moving in small, desperate circles, seeking friction. He understands. His hand leaves my breast, slides down over the trembling plane of my stomach, and slips beneath the remaining fabric of my skirt. His fingers find the soaked silk of my small clothes, and he lets out a choked groan against my skin.
“So wet,” he breathes, the words filled with awe and a feral hunger. “All for this?”
“All for you,” I pant, spreading my legs wider in blatant invitation. “Please.”
He tears the silk aside. The first touch of his fingers, bare against my slick, aching flesh, steals the breath from my lungs. He doesn’t tease. One long, thick finger slides into me, deep and sure. I clamp around him, a shudder wracking my whole body.
“More,” I demand, my voice ragged.
A second finger joins the first, stretching me, filling me. He sets a slow, relentless rhythm, his thumb circling the tight, desperate bundle of nerves above. Pleasure coils, tight and unbearable, with every stroke. My world narrows to the feelingof his hand, the scrape of his clothes against my thighs, the scent of him, spice and ozone and pure, male desire.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I force my eyes open, meeting his. The connection is as profound as the physical one. I am laid bare in every way. His fingers curl inside me, brushing a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. A broken sob escapes me.
“I need to feel you,” I gasp, my hands pulling at his trousers. “All of you. Now.”
He withdraws his hand, and the emptiness is a physical ache. He rises just enough to shove his own clothing down, freeing himself. I watch, my mouth dry. He is magnificent, fully aroused, thick and ready. The primal part of me quivers at the sight.
He braces himself over me, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance. The anticipation is a sweet, sharp agony. He pushes forward, just an inch, and we both gasp at the sensation, the tight, hot clasp, the overwhelming rightness.
“Slow,” he grits out, sweat beading on his brow from the strain of holding back.
“No,” I breathe, lifting my hips to take him deeper. “Don’t be gentle. I need tofeelit. I need to feelus.”
His control snaps. In one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself completely inside me. The feeling of being filled, stretched,joinedis so profound it borders on pain. I scream, my nails digging into his back. For a moment, he doesn’t move, letting us both adjust to the shocking fullness, the way the bond seems to fuse where our bodies are connected.
Then he begins to move. He sets a punishing, perfect rhythm, each deep stroke hitting that glorious spot inside me, each withdrawal leaving me empty and desperate for his return. The slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, my helpless moans, theyfill the quiet room. He shifts the angle, driving even deeper, and I see stars.