The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(135)

He was fully erect and he ground his hips against her, pushing his hard cock in and rubbing it against her belly, the gold H of his belt scratching at her. More kissing, the desperate, starved kind that you remembered even when you were eighty and far too old to think of such things. And then his hands were on her slippery breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples until the distinction between pain and pleasure disappeared and all she knew was that if she didn’t orgasm in the next moment, she was going to expire—

As if sensing what she needed, Assail dropped to his knees, threw one of her legs over his shoulder, and went down on her, his lips eating at her sex in the same way he’d attacked her mouth.

This was sex as punishment, an indictment of her choice, a physical expression of his anger and his disapproval.

And maybe it made her a sick bitch, but she loved it.

She wanted him to come at her like this, pissed off and nothing but edge, pouring himself into her so she didn’t have to feel as guilty … or as empty.

Gripping his soaked hair, she tilted her hips and forced him even harder into her, using her calf to his back so he found a rhythm that—

Sola bit down on her lip as she came wildly, her torso jerking against the marble with a high-pitched squeak.

Before she knew it, she was on the floor of the shower, stretched out in front of him as he peeled his soaked jacket and silk shirt from his carved chest. As he went for his belt buckle, she reached out for him, her hands impatient to get to that smooth skin and those hard contours of his.

He never said a word to her.

Not as he spread her legs wide and mounted her, not as his cock went in and he started pounding on her, not even as he braced himself above her and stared into her eyes as if he were daring her to leave everything he could give her.

Assail’s broad back caught the spray, shielding her from it, keeping her vision clear—so she could see everything from his fierce expression to his bulging shoulder muscles to the shadows thrown by his pecs. His wet hair swung to the rhythm, drops of water leaving the tips of the waves like tears, and every once in a while his lip would curl back—

Dimly, something registered as not right, a red flag raised in the far recesses of her brain. But that was so easy to ignore as another surging release took over, shutting down thought so that sensation was all she knew … Assail was all she knew.

As her sex fisted his erection, he began to orgasm, too, his body rearing back—

No condom. Shit!

Just as the thought flashed through her mind, it was gone again, her release redoubling on itself so instead of pushing him back, she reached out and sank her nails into his hips.

It was right about when her own release was fading that things went … a little strange.

Her body stilled in recovery and she felt him kicking deep inside of her, finishing what he had started.

Except he wasn’t done with her.

After he’d finished ejaculating, his pelvis locking against hers, he began to withdraw almost immediately. And she expected him to lie with her on the marble; maybe lift her up and carry her out to dry off and get in bed; maybe make a comment that, damn it, they hadn’t been safe in the slightest.

Maybe tell her what he’d shown her: that he didn’t want her to go.

Instead, he braced his upper weight on one hand and gripped his glistening cock with the other. Stroking himself, he groaned as if he were getting ready to come again.

The second orgasm shot out of him and he directed it all over her sex—and he didn’t stop there. After he’d covered her core, he moved up, shifting himself so that he came on her stomach, her rib cage, her breasts, her neck, her face. He seemed to have an endless supply of releases, and as the hot jets hit her oversensitized skin, she found herself orgasming along with him, sweeping her hands up and down her body, feeling the hot mess he was coating her with, cupping her own breasts.

In that back room of her brain, she knew there was some other point to all this.

But as with the lack of a condom, she was too in the moment to care.

It was as if he were … marking her … in some way.

And that was okay with her.





FORTY-FOUR


Xcor was totally disoriented in the midst of the mist and knew that it was getting time to turn back. He’d been aimlessly tromping up the mountain for what felt like hours, and had still not reached any kind of summit or fortification. All he’d seen were evergreen trees. The occasional stream bed that was iced over. Deer prints in the snow—

His phone rang quietly in his pocket.

Even as he cursed the interruption, he recognized it was the proper cue to stop this madness, undoubtedly one of his Bastards checking in. Besides, assuming he discovered the Brotherhood’s lair, what did he expect to do? Howl outside of the Chosen’s window until she agreed to meet with him?

All that would do was get him surrounded by warriors—and although he’d heard that red was the color of love, bloodshed was no proper replacement for a rose.

Retrieving his cell, he answered it brusquely. “Yes?”

A sharp sound reverberated in his ear, shrill and loud enough that he pulled the thing away.

Returning it into range, he barked, “What.”

No reply.

“Damn it, Throe—”

All at once, every instinct he had or would ever possess started to scream—and not in warning as if he were about to be attacked.