Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(102)

Sorcha reached out and sunk her fingers into the hollows of his cheek. She whispered fierce and hoarse, “How dare you hide from me, my king.”

“Your king?”

“You hide from no one.”

The words struck a fire deep within her belly. She would tear apart anyone who dared say this man was not a king. She had met the imposter who wore a stolen crown. No man could ever live up to the goliath who hovered above her and dimmed the lights for fear his face would lessen her passion.

Her heart beat like a pounding drum. She gentled her grip on his face, sliding down the well-known dip of throat and collarbone. Her fingers curled around the edge of his shirt and lifted it.

All the while, Eamonn’s eyes watched her movements. So many emotions played across his face. Shame. Embarrassment. Wonder.

“What manner of creature are you?” he asked. “Fearless in your ability to see past this gruesome figure, and so selfless that you would allow a beast to lay hands upon you.”

“You are not a beast,” she said as she flung his shirt to the floor.

The caverns of geodes followed the lines of his ribs. She traced their edges, daring to dip into the crevices until crystals bit at her fingers. Sorcha outlined each wound, each grievous injury until she was certain she had marked each with her scent and her touch.

She sat up, pressing her chest against his and her mouth against his shoulder. She traced the mangled flesh and stone with lips and tongue.

“I claim you as mine, rightful king of the Seelie Fae.” Sorcha sank her teeth into his skin, biting through flesh until the harsh edge of stone cracked her lips.

Blood smeared his shoulder. Marking him for all eternity.

He roared out in anger, or perhaps something far more dangerous. His hand flexed beneath the fabric of her dress and ripped. Crystals and warm skin traced the delicate line of her spine in apology.

“You toy with fire,” he growled. “Once wounded, I never heal.”

“Good. Perhaps any other woman who dares touch you will think twice.”

The feral grin on his face beckoned the creature inside her, the woman who wanted to feast upon the Fae. “And you say you are not a druid.”

“I like you better with your mouth shut.”

“Shall I find something to keep it busy then?”

Sorcha couldn’t respond. A fire burned in her blood, and need swelled until it crashed over her mind. She straddled his waist and arched her spine, offering her body as a banquet upon which he could feast.

Candlelight made her skin glow. He lifted shaking hands, gliding over the bumps of her ribs until he could take her in hand. She tilted her head back, unable to maintain eye contact when the crystals flared to life. Violet glowed behind her closed eyes.

She gasped as crystals slid over the tips of her breasts, cold and strangely hard. Her spine curved further, and she pressed into his hand. A long sigh hollowed her belly as he teased the silken tip between his fingers.

He followed the line of her throat with his nose. Teeth closed around her ear, his hot breath vibrating in her ear. She clenched her legs against his sides as wet heat rushed through her.

“Lie down,” he drawled.

“No.”

“Sorcha.”

“I said no.”

“Now is not the time to argue with me.”

“What did I say about keeping your mouth shut?” she asked.

Sorcha locked her ankles and twisted her body. His brows drew down in surprise, but he obliged her request. Eamonn rolled.

He stretched his body across the bed and settled her hips over his. Cocking his head to the side, he asked “What now?”

A wicked grin spread across her lips. Sorcha smoothed her hands over his shoulders, pushing his arms away from her and onto the bed. She stroked across the bulges of his biceps, over the crystals on his forearms, and locked her fingers with his.

Her hips rocked, playing back and forth across his hardness. He was incredibly large, far more than a human man could ever dream of being. A small moment of worry made her wonder if he would fit.

She’d have to make him.

Sorcha whispered her lips over the mangled mess of his shoulder. The crystals scratched into the surface of his chest nipped at her mouth. She danced her fingers across his ribs, smiling at his gasp as she trailed her fingers across his stomach.

She lingered at the band of muscles arching over his hip bone. Tiny nibbles sent gooseflesh raising before her eyes.

“Sorcha,” he moaned. “Have pity on a man.”

Hardly. She looked up at him, flicking a brow before biting down hard.

He clenched his fists in the sheets and threw his head to the side.

“Pity is for the weak,” she whispered, “and you underestimated the woman you took to bed.”

She slid her fingers beneath his breeches, brushing her cheek over his throbbing heat. The sheets whispered as he arched against her touch. He lifted himself so she might free him from the confines of clothing.

He was glorious. Sorcha was thoroughly pleased to see that faeries were built entirely similarly to men.

She pressed a kiss against his shaft and made her way back up his body. She straddled his waist and took hold of his hands.

“You have been on this isle for a long time. It would be careless if I did not ask how long it has been.”

Blue eyes blistered with heat as she tucked his fingers under the long length of her skirt. “Too long.”