Page 92 of Fractured Loyalties

“Stop holding back,” I whisper, my voice a challenge, low and raw. “I want all of you.”

His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind that feral gaze. Something coils tight beneath his restraint, a beast straining at its leash. “You sure about that?” His voice is gravel, rough with warning, dripping with promise.

I nod, my pulse hammering. “Show me what you really want.”

His mouth crashes into mine again, devouring, claiming, shattering the quiet of the room. The kiss is a war—teeth and tongue, a brutal dance of need that leaves my lips swollen and my body aching. The world tilts, and I’m lost in the heat of him, the taste of whiskey and sin.

Clothes come off in a frenzy, barriers torn away like they offend us. My shirt hits the floor, his jeans follow, the rasp of his zipper a fucking symphony in the charged air. His skin against mine is electric, the scent of salt and musk and something darker, headier, flooding my senses. I’m bare beneath him, exposed, my body a canvas for whatever he’s about to unleash.

He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head against the pillow with one hand. Not rough, not playful—just firm and certain, like he’s staking a claim on my soul. The silk sheets are cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his grip. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver straight to my core.

“I won’t,” I say, defiant, my voice trembling with want. “I’m yours.”

His eyes flash, feral and possessive. “Then I’m done pretending I don’t dream of ruining you every goddamn time I see you.”

His mouth moves lower, a slow, savage descent. His lips graze my neck, sucking hard enough to mark me, a bruise blooming under his touch. He lingers at my collarbone, his tongue tracing the delicate bone, then dips to the soft underside of my breast, teasing the sensitive skin until I’m squirming, my nipples hard and aching.

He finds a faint bruise—someone else’s mistake—and pauses, his tongue circling it like he’s erasing it, rewriting myskin with his own claim. “Mine,” he growls against me, and I melt.

I gasp, my back lifting from the bed, arching into him, my breasts pressing against his chest in a silent, frantic plea. He keeps my wrists pinned above me, his grip firm but not cruel—just enough to keep me still, to make me feel the heat of being utterly exposed under his gaze. No hiding. No shield. Just skin and breath and nerve endings lit up like fire alarms.

His free hand trails down slowly, mapping my ribs before cupping my breast with deliberate care. His fingers circle the nipple, teasing it until my spine tightens with pleasure.

Then his mouth follows—lips brushing, tongue tracing, finally sealing around me with wicked precision. He sucks, then flicks, then swirls, driving sensation through me so sharply I moan aloud, my body writhing beneath him.

He releases my wrists, the shift almost imperceptible, but my body knows. His hands move—one trailing down my side, the other skimming across my stomach, slow and intentional.

He palms my breast again, thumb flicking the already-sensitive peak as his other hand slips between my thighs, fingers teasing, testing, parting me with a pressure that makes my hips twitch. I moan, arching toward him, greedy for more.

Taking advantage of that freedom, I reach for him—one hand fisting in his hair, the other sliding down his back, tracing the dips of muscle, the rise of heat.

His skin is fire under my palms. He groans low in his throat when my nails drag lightly along his waist.

Then he goes lower.

His mouth replaces his hand, settling between my legs with devastating precision. His tongue finds me, slow and sure, dragging a cry from my throat. My thighs tremble. I feel likeI might shatter. And still he keeps going—tongue circling, lips sealing, hands holding me wide open, exposed, adored. The pleasure is thick and unbearable, building with each pass of his mouth.

“Fuck,” I gasp, twisting beneath him.

He answers with a growl, dark and hungry, like he’s starving for this—starving for me.

“I want you ruined for anyone else,” he says, his voice a dark vow against my pussy. “I want you to feel me in every fucking inch of you, long after I’m gone.”

“I already do,” I breathe, my voice breaking as his lips brush closer, teasing the sensitive skin just above my clit.

He doesn’t rush. His tongue finds me again, slow and deliberate, a worship that’s half-penance, half-obsession. He licks along my folds, tasting me, savoring every shudder as I buck against his mouth.

His tongue circles my clit, teasing, then flattens against it, a slow, relentless pressure that makes me cry out, his name a broken plea on my lips. “Fuck, Elias,” I moan, my hips grinding, chasing the heat of his mouth.

He doesn’t stop, not when my thighs tremble, not when my breath catches in sharp, desperate gasps. His fingers join his tongue, sliding inside me, curling just right, stroking that spot that makes my vision blur and my body clench.

I’m unraveling, my thighs straining against his grip, my body arching as he works me, his tongue and fingers a fucking symphony of torment and bliss.

“Oh, God, don’t stop,” I beg, my voice raw, my pussy pulsing under his touch. He growls against me, the vibration sending me spiraling, and I shatter, my orgasm crashing through me like a tidal wave.

My cry echoes, my body convulsing as he keeps going, licking me through the aftershocks, drawing out every pulse until I’m trembling, spent, and still aching for more.

He pulls back, climbing over me, his eyes a mix of feral hunger and something softer, something that fucking terrifies me.