Page 297 of Fractured Allegiance

He carries me through the narrow hall, our mouths still locked, our laughter breaking between breaths that sound too much like hunger. But the laughter fades into moans as his teeth nip at my lower lip, tugging just hard enough to sting, then soothing it with his tongue.

I rake my nails down his back, feeling the muscles flex under my touch, urging him faster. By the time we reach the bedroom, I'm panting, my shirt half-untucked, his buttons popped open from my frantic hands.

The bedroom smells of rain and linen. The sheets are tangled from nights we didn’t sleep.

When he lays me down on the bed, the movement is unhurried, almost reverent. The kind of patience that only comes after war.

He hovers over me for a moment, his weight pressing me into the mattress just enough to make me feel pinned, desired. He brushes a strand of hair from my face and studies me like he’s memorizing the last proof that he’s still human, his dark eyes tracing every curve of my features, lingering on my swollen lips.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through my chest.

It should sound like possession. It doesn’t. It sounds like belonging.

I pull him closer until the space between us disappears, my fingers hooking into his shirt and yanking it over his head in one swift motion.

His skin is fever-hot under my palms, scarred and taut over hard muscle. I trace the lines of old wounds with my fingertips, then my lips, kissing down his chest, tasting the salt of his sweat.

He shudders, his hands sliding under my shirt, pushing it up slowly, exposing my skin inch by inch. His mouth follows, hot and wet, trailing kisses along my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts.

He unhooks my bra with expert ease, tossing it aside, and his lips close over one nipple, sucking hard enough to make me arch off the bed with a cry.

"Oh God, Silas," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair as he lavishes attention on my breasts—teeth grazing, tongue swirling, his free hand kneading the other until I'm writhing beneath him.

The ache between my legs builds to a throbbing need, my hips bucking up instinctively. He chuckles against my skin, the vibration sending another wave of heat through me, and his hand drifts lower, fingers dipping under the waistband of my pants.

He peels them off slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, watching my reactions as he exposes me. My underwear follows, and then I'm bare before him, vulnerable and aching.

His gaze darkens with hunger as he takes me in, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my inner thighs, teasing closer but never quite touching where I need him. "So wet for me already," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.

Finally, his thumb brushes over my clit, light at first, then pressing in firm circles that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I moan loudly, my body bowing toward his touch.

He slides a finger inside me, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes me see white.

His mouth descends again, this time lower—kissing down my stomach, nipping at my hip bones, until his tongue replaces his fingers, lapping at me with slow, deliberate strokes.

I buck against his face, my hands clutching the sheets, the pleasure building in waves that crash over me.

He holds my hips down with one strong arm, his other hand spreading me wider as he sucks and licks, driving me to the edge but pulling back just before I tip over.

"Not yet," he whispers against my slick folds, his breath hot and teasing. "I want to feel you come around me."

I tug him up, desperate now, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Silas... now."

He sheds his pants quickly, his cock springing free—thick, hard, veined, the tip glistening with pre-cum. I wrap my hand around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, feeling him pulse in my grip. He groans, thrusting into my hand, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he positions himself between my legs.

He enters me slowly at first, agonizing, stretching me deliciously until he's buried to the hilt. We hold still for a moment, savoring the fullness, the connection—his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in shallow pants.

Then he starts to move, deep and hard. The rhythm builds, raw and primal, his hips snapping against mine with a wet, slapping sound that echoes in the room. I meet him thrust for thrust, my legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper.

His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, then pinching my nipples, one sliding between us to rub my clit in time with his strokes. Sweat slicks our bodies, making us glide together seamlessly.

He shifts angles, hitting deeper, and I cry out, the pressure coiling tighter in my core. "Fuck, Lydia, you feel so good," he grits out, his voice strained.

I clench around him deliberately, drawing a guttural moan from his throat. He picks up speed, pounding into me with relentless force, the bed creaking under us, the headboard thumping against the wall.

The storm outside breaks harder. Wind rattles the panes, waves strike the rocks. He moves with it, against it, within it—every motion, an argument and a prayer.

I rake my nails down his back, leaving trails, and he hisses in pleasure-pain, retaliating by biting down on my shoulder, marking me as his.