Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(86)

She wanted to cry for him. But that wasn’t the kind of release he needed. He needed to break free himself. She picked up her tempo, undulating her torso as she gripped his cock as tightly as she could with her inner muscles. Massaging him, working him, silently urging him to cut loose.

Bowing her head, she held his gaze, and her dark hair fell forward covering him like a silken tent.

As she f*cked him, he stroked her breasts and fingered her hair. “I love you,” she told him. “I love you.”

Her words seemed to break him out of a trance. Gripping her by the hips he thrust up, and up again, until he pistoned inside her. The friction grew unbearable, and while she had wanted to make this about him, her own pleasure skyrocketed again, until another climax slammed into her body. She flung out her hands and cried out from the force of it.

He grabbed her hands, gripping them tightly, as he shoved into her. His careful tenderness splintered and the expression on his face turned feral.

Then he arched his spine and ground his pelvis bone against hers, groaning. She was stretched so tightly inside, she could feel when his cock began to pulse. He spurted inside of her, shaking.

This time, she knew what to expect. Even as his climax slowed, his face twisted. He growled, “It’s not enough. It can’t ever be enough.”

“Come on,” she invited softly. “Give it to me. Give everything to me.”

He lifted her off his body. Rising up to his knees, with one hand on her back, he urged her onto her hands and knees.

Eagerly, she settled into place, bracing herself for him. It was a frank, carnal position, everything she could possibly want it to be. She had thought he needed to cut loose. She hadn’t considered her own needs, or that she needed to cut loose as well.

He came over her from behind, covering her, and before she could reach between her legs to help guide him in again, she felt the broad, thick head of his cock probing at her entrance. This time, when he slid in, she was slick from both of their pleasure, and she felt him enter her in one long, luxurious thrust that shoved her forward onto her elbows.

She groaned, shaking everywhere. The large muscles in her thighs quivered. Everything civilized that she thought she knew about herself fell away, as he wound both big hands into her hair and pinned her down.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I fought for you. I waited for you. I’ll live for you. I’d die for you.” With each sentence, he thrust into her again. “You’re my heart, my soul. Mine.”

“Don’t let me go again,” she sobbed into the bedspread. “Don’t ever let me go.”

“Never.”

He would never give up, never let her go, never stop wanting or needing her. He would always be faithful, always welcoming. The emotional reality of that began to sink in.

Finally, after all the issues that had darkened her life, this devotion, this adamant dedication, was what lay at shadow’s end.

The last of the cold, sharp pain that had haunted her for so long shattered. Tears spilled down her face. She couldn’t climax again. She was spent. But still the pressure built, as he kept up such a patient, steady and oh my gods relentless pace.

Then her gentle, adorable, dangerous lover came down over her back and bit her at the back of her neck, and it was such a possessive, animalistic thing to do, it shocked her right out of her exhaustion and hurtled her into a third climax.

Sounds came out of her. Sounds that she had never heard herself make. She was no longer in control of her body. He was.

He twisted behind her. With a muffled groan, he began to shudder all over as he climaxed again too. He had barely begun to slow, when he gasped, “Again—I’ve got to.”

She was beyond physical words. She breathed, Whatever you need. Take me however much you need. I’m yours.

Totally and completely, devoted to him.

Driven by need, he took her again, and again, until the sun set and the room lay in total darkness. At some point, she felt transformed, existing almost outside of her body, as if she had gone through a crucible to emerge on the other side, a new burnished stranger.

When at last he stopped, he lay on top of her. The weight of his big body anchored her in place, and the heavy beat of his heart slammed into her chest. She could barely muster enough strength to wrap her arms around his neck, but somehow she managed it.

They drifted together, in silence. Unmoored, her mind spun into a lazy journey of disconnected thoughts and images.

Sometimes, when Wyr mated, it enhanced the likelihood of a pregnancy. She managed a slight, exhausted smile. She wouldn’t look for such a rare miracle—very, very long ago, she had learned how to be happy with her own life. All the Elder Races, each in their own way, had to come to terms with the same.

But if it did happen, after all these millennia, wouldn’t that be something?

Pressing a kiss to Graydon’s damp temple, she whispered, “If, by any chance, we are ever lucky enough to have a boy of our own, can we name him Constantine?”

His body went rigid. She had just enough time to think, Oh gods, I’ve said the wrong thing.

Then, in a strangled, broken whisper, he told her, “I would really love that.”

The rigidity in his body fractured in a harsh sob. Shoulders heaving, he buried his face in her neck.

Finally, his grief broke out at last.