Page 22 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

The clinical language was jarring against our naked bodies, but I understood what he was saying. They’d built him to use sex as a weapon, never to experience it as communion .

“And what do you say?” I asked, my finger tracing the path of blood down his chin.

His pupils constricted to pinpoints before dilating again. “I want to be inside you.”

Those words triggered something so primal inside me that it felt like I couldn’t wait for another moment to feel him inside me.

My body shuddered in eager anticipation, my heart drumming inside my chest. I was already so soaked, so ready to take him.

He lowered himself to me again, positioning his body between my thighs.

The hard length of him pressed against my entrance, but he paused there, searching my face.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and the question encompassed everything—who he was, what he’d done, what might still be coming for us both.

“Yes,” I said simply, hooking my leg around his hip, drawing him closer. His tip prodded against my entrance, only rising me further to that complete bliss. “I want you—whatever parts of you are real.”

Slowly, he eased himself into me, which drew a gasp from my throat. He moved with a control that seemed to cost him, judging by the trembling in his arms. Every inch stretched me wider, the delicious burn of accommodation making my inner walls pulse around him.

“Fuck.” He hissed through clenched teeth as he buried himself completely inside me. This was the first time I had heard him swear. Whatever he was feeling, I felt it too. It felt as if he had been made to bury himself inside me and stay there forever .

I couldn’t speak at all. The fullness, though it felt so right, was overwhelming—physically and emotionally. I felt claimed in ways that transcended the physical act.

His eyes held mine, searching for something.

What he saw must have satisfied him, because he began to move, withdrawing almost completely before driving forward again.

His body knew exactly how to angle for maximum pleasure, but there was something else there too—a desperation that had nothing to do with training.

Our bodies moved with increasing urgency, my hips rising to meet each thrust. His cock seemed to hit all the right spots inside me, brushing against the nooks I didn’t even know existed.

My legs wrapped around him, drawing him in closer.

Sweat slicked our skin where we pressed together, the sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuated by my gasps and his deeper groans.

“You should fear me,” he growled against my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe while he drove deeper.

His hand wrapped around my throat—not squeezing but resting there, a reminder of his lethal capabilities even as pleasure built between us.

My teeth sank into my bottom lip. At first, I couldn’t even focus on any words—just the pleasure that roamed through me, consuming me whole.

I deliberately clenched around him, watching his eyes widen as my inner muscles gripped him tightly. I wanted him to know just how badly I needed his presence.

“I’m claiming you instead,” I gasped, using his moment of vulnerability to push up and sink my teeth into his shoulder, marking him. “They don’t get to have this part of you. ”

His rhythm faltered. The calculated efficiency that had defined his every movement since I’d known him suddenly fractured.

His thrusts became deeper, harder, more erratic.

For the first time, I wasn’t experiencing the controlled application of his body as a weapon; I was witnessing the emergence of raw, untamed need.

“Maeve,” he whispered, my name a revelation on his lips. My fingers knitted into his hair. I needed him as close as possible; any distance between us was space wasted.

I met each thrust with equal force, arching to take him deeper. Those lethal hands, hands that could kill, now trembled against my skin. I was watching the perfect weapon come undone inside me.

Suddenly, his body went rigid above me. His eyes went vacant and distant. Fresh blood trickled from his nose, a crimson line that spoke of the war waging in his mind—programming fighting against pleasure. Protocol battling desire.

Instead of pushing him away, I wrapped my legs tighter around him, keeping him deep inside me where my body pulsed around his hardness.

“Look at me,” I demanded, reaching up to grip his jaw, forcing his gaze to mine. “Stay with me. See me. Look at how good you make me feel. Oh, fuck,” I swore as he rammed himself deeper inside me. His forehead dipped against mine, eyes locked on my hues.

Recognition flickered in his gaze—the man, not the machine. With his programming momentarily disoriented, I seized the opportunity. With strength born from desperation, I pushed against his chest and rolled us, straddling him.

His surprise as I took control was evident—the deadly assassin caught off-guard by something as simple as a human connection. That surprise quickly morphed into dark hunger as I sank down, taking him impossibly deeper in this new position.

I captured his wrists, pinning them beside his head in an illusion of restraint we both knew was exactly that—illusion.

He could break my hold in an instant. The power I held wasn’t physical—it was the astonishing fact that he chose submission.

I moved in an erratic, circular motion, my inner muscles massaging his cock that was buried deep inside me.

He could have easily overpowered me, taken back control, but he didn’t. Instead, he surrendered himself to my need.

“Is this what it feels like?” he asked, voice thick with arousal. “To be… human?”

The question broke something inside me—this deadly assassin reduced to asking what humanity felt like. I leaned down, pressing my forehead against his.

“Yes,” I whispered against his mouth. “This is what it’s like to be free.”

Something primal took over his expression.

“Then help me feel it,” he said as I released his hands, fingers digging into my hips as he guided my movements.

I complied, riding him with increasing intensity, chasing our pleasure with single-minded focus. His thumb found my center with surprising tenderness even as his hips drove upward with brutal force. The contrast between violence and tenderness—the essential paradox of him—pushed me toward the edge.

The orgasm hit with devastating intensity, my inner walls pulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed through me. His eyes locked with mine as my release triggered his own—his body jerking beneath me as he followed me over the edge. In that moment, we were both completely vulnerable.

We had seen each other—really seen each other—beyond conditioning, beyond programming, beyond masks.

I collapsed against his chest, aftershocks still rippling through me. My body would not stop trembling, even minutes after my peak. His arms came around me, one hand tracing idle patterns on my spine while the other remained tensed, ready to reach for the weapon on the nightstand.

Even now, he remained the perfect weapon—lover and protector in one dangerous package.

Reaper’s arms tightened around me, pulling me closer against him in a gesture so protective it made my chest ache.

“Mine,” he murmured against my hair, the word so soft I almost missed it.

I felt his body go still, surprised by his own declaration. The word hung between us, dangerous and new—maybe the first thing he’d claimed for himself since they’d stripped away his identity.

I didn’t contradict him. Couldn’t. Because in some primal, reckless way, I wanted to be his. And he, mine.

His eyes suddenly tracked to something on the floor. Following his gaze, I spotted the red poker chip gleaming against the floorboards where it must have fallen during our frantic coupling. His fingers twitched toward it automatically, muscle memory seemingly stronger than conscious thought.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice still husky.

Confusion clouded his features as he reached down and retrieved it, turning the chip over between his fingers.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s mine. Not theirs.”

His thumb caressed its worn edge with unexpected tenderness.

“Sometimes I hear cards shuffling when I hold it,” he continued, surprising me with the voluntary disclosure. “Laughter. A man’s voice…”

The vulnerability in his admission stole my breath. This was the first memory fragment he’d willingly shared, offered without prompting or pain.

“That’s good,” I whispered, touching his face. “That’s how we start rebuilding. One piece at a time.”

Sleep pulled at me despite my determination to remain alert. My last conscious thought was both terrifying and exhilarating: this connection was becoming something I couldn’t afford but couldn’t resist.

As my breathing deepened, I felt his fingers tracing what felt like letters on my bare shoulder. His lips pressed against my throat, breathing me in as if memorizing my scent.

“I choose you,” he whispered, thinking I was already asleep. “God help us both.”