Page 127 of Fractured Loyalties

“Need.”

It shatters something in me.

I lift her. Turn her. Lay her back against the bed in one breathless motion. She arches into me without asking. Her fingers grip the back of my neck, nails sharp. Her breath fans across my ear.

“Don’t be careful,” she whispers. “Not with me.”

So I’m not.

I press into her. Mouth, hands, heat. I take the edge of her moan and swallow it whole. I push the shirt up and over her head. She helps. She always helps. Even when she’s breaking.

I don’t say I missed her.

I show her.

With every touch.

With every breath.

Every growled promise against her skin that no one will ever get close enough again.

Her hips buck. I hold her there. Not to restrain, but to remind. That I’m here. That I’m real. That no one touches her but me.

Not the ghosts.

Not the enemies.

Not even the versions of her past self still clawing at the inside of her ribs.

I take my time.

Not to be gentle. Not to be slow. But to make sure she feels every goddamn second of this—every inch, every shift, every breath that leaves my mouth and finds her skin.

Her body is an altar, and I’m the heretic who’s come to defile it. She’s sprawled beneath me, skin glistening with sweat, lips parted and raw from the brutal edge of our kisses. Her hips twitch, restless, a silent plea for more, but I’m not here to grant mercy. I’m here to unravel her, to make her feel every pulse, every scrape, every goddamn shudder until she’s nothing but need carved into flesh.

I start at her throat, where her pulse throbs like a war drum under her skin. My lips graze it first, soft as a whisper, then my tongue follows, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of her desperation.

She whimpers, a fractured sound that’s more animal than human, and I let my teeth scrape just enough to make her gasp, to make her wonder if I’ll draw blood. I linger there, sucking gently, then harder, marking the fragile column of her neck until her breath hitches and her fingers twist in the sheets, clawing like she’s trying to hold onto sanity itself.

I move to the curve of her shoulder, biting down with intent—not enough to break skin, but enough to brand her with the ghost of my teeth. Her body jerks, a low moan spilling from her lips, and I soothe the mark with a slow, wet drag of my tongue, savoring the way her skin trembles under my mouth.

Lower now, my lips trace the delicate ridge of her collarbone, then find the soft weight of her breast. I don’t rush. I circle her nipple with the tip of my tongue, teasing until it hardens, then draw it into my mouth, sucking with a rhythm that mirrors the pulse between her thighs. She arches, heels skidding against the silk sheets, her body screaming what her voice can’t.

“Elias—” My name is a sob, a plea torn from her throat, raw and jagged, like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth.

I seize her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head, my grip a steel promise—firm, not cruel, but unyielding. It’s a command, a cage, and her pulse races under my fingers, her body yielding even as her eyes burn with defiance.

I release her wrists as mouth continues its descent, lips brushing the taut plane of her ribs, tongue dipping into the shallow dip of her navel. Her skin is a fever, salt and silk and sin, and I’m drowning in it, each taste pulling me deeper into her orbit.

Her thighs part for me, shameless, dripping with want. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal, musky and intoxicating, and I pause just to breathe her in, to let the anticipation coil tighter in her gut.

When my lips finally find her cunt, my tongue parting her slick folds, slow and deliberate—she cries out, a sound so raw it could shatter stone. I don’t rush. I explore her with my mouth, lapping at her core, teasing the swollen bud of her clit with soft flicks, then harder, circling until her hips buck against me.

My fingers join, two sliding inside her, curling to find that spot that makes her choke on her own breath. She’s tight, molten, and so fucking wet I can feel her dripping down my hand.

I torment her, drawing her to the edge with slow, deliberate strokes, then pulling back just as she starts to unravel. Her pleas are a symphony—fractured, desperate, “Please, Elias, please”—but I don’t give in.

I want her to feel the ache, to know I’m the one who controls it. My tongue presses harder, my fingers thrust deeper, and when she finally breaks, her orgasm crashes through her like a tidal wave, her thighs clamp around my head, her body convulsing, her scream a jagged hymn of surrender.