Page 24 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

My. Woman.

Rayze

Warrick’s tongue. That’s it. It’s the only thought I have as he descends. A floodgate opens, a want erupting through me that I haven’t felt in so long .

He shifts beneath me, one palm against my hip, the other at my thigh, and drags me down as he lowers onto his back. The tunnel is too tight to move without touching, without pressing. He pulls me over his face, settling me on his mouth like I’m the only air he’s ever wanted.

A sharp inhale breaks from my lips. My knees wedge against the packed dirt on either side of his head, thighs trembling around him.

I can’t brace. I can’t fucking breathe.

I fold over him, spine curving, chest pressed to his stomach. My cheek brushes the waistband of his pants before his tongue drags through my perfect spot, and stars burst behind my eyes.

I cry out, my body tensing as a small, delicious orgasm dampens my skin.

“Good girl. Good. Fucking. Girl.” His groan punches straight into my cunt.

My hips jerk, stuttering forward, but his grip tightens. He growls against me like I’ve disobeyed, and fuck—I feel his need slithering along the Bond. I feel it all. Every breath he takes between savoring kisses. The way his fingers dig into my skin to keep me pinned.

He sucks on me like I’m his purpose. Drinks me like I’m the only thing that’s ever kept him alive. He’s not trying to play a game. He’s worshiping.

That doesn’t mean I can’t play. I’ll admit I let myself feel more than I should at the stables.

This time, I won’t let go so easily. My body is a vessel for destruction.

Sin is my expertise. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make him pay, and though I do believe he’s been genuine in some of his truths, he certainly hasn’t served his full sentence.

My fingers claw at the buckle of his belt. I feel him throb beneath the fabric, hard and leaking, and I mouth him over his pants. He jerks under my tongue, his breath stuttering in surprise across my pussy, and I moan against the cloth.

It’s in the way.

My hands fumble with the zipper of his pants until I find his cock. I wrap my hand around him and nearly come from the sound he makes.

“Fuck, angel,” he rasps against me, shattered and devoted. “Take it. Take everything.”

I seal my lips around his wet head, tongue curling, breath faltering—and he loses it. They always do.

His tongue flicks faster. Hungrier. Matching me stroke for stroke.

The Bond howls.

It coils tighter, feral, snapping invisible teeth. My core clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled. My mouth works him harder. I want him panting, moaning, marking my name into the dirt.

Fingers join his tongue, and I hum around his cock as his hips begin to roll. Every thrust is precise. Deliberate. His promise to me of what’s to come, adoration and defilement.

My heart thunders, some of my need breaking through the shields I’ve placed around my pleasure.

I want to fuck him. I want to claim him.

The thought hits harder than his tongue, burns hotter than his hands. I rip my mouth away, breath ragged, panic slicing through.

Not yet. Not yet .

“Stop,” I choke. “I need to stop.”

His fingers and tongue halt.

“I can’t,” I breathe and scramble off him.

I’ve been touched a thousand times. Fucked dozens. But it’s never been about me. Pleasure is a means to an end. Moans are used to disarm, not feel. I’ve fucked for secrets, kissed for mercy, bled men dry with a smile on my lips and a dagger in my hand.

But this —

I’m feeling things. Fuck.

“Let’s move.” I heave the words. Rubble and dirt scrape against my palms and knees. I drip between my thighs, hyper-aware of his confused, ragged breaths behind me.

A palm sweeps along my leg, gentle. Too gentle. The tunnel closes in around me, and my body stalls, caught between forward and back, between fear and want.

“Vicious, you’re shaking,” he whispers.

My stomach knots.

“You’ve hardly screamed loud enough to fix that mess between your thighs.” His voice is rough, but his touch is hesitant. Unsure. Like he’s pretending not to be as terrified as I am.

It makes everything worse. This man—one that’s tried to find workarounds with the Skin Trade, who kisses me with the want to heal me, who fucking stops when I tell him to stop—I can’t make sense of him. This isn’t who he was supposed to be.

I crawl faster, desperate for freedom. Air hits my face, and I lift an arm, fingers brushing open space. A branch in the tunnel. “Which way?”

“Backwards, angel. Just a few steps.”

I grit my teeth. “Which. Way.”

“Sit. Back.”

“I need to see the nest,” I try, but I can hear the ache in my voice, feel it in the throb of my core.

“How’s this?” he starts.

His words are so soft. They’re everything I need, and—I can’t do this, but it’s deeper than any craving. My soul begs to be bound and smothered, the motherfucker.

“In this dark place, I’m no one. I’m not a Serpent. I’m not your enemy. Not here. Not now. I’m just a body. A voice.” He toys with the hem of my dress. “And I’m yours.”

His fingers slide up my shoulders and tug my coat down until I’m exposed on all fours.

“You’re Rayze Angeline,” he breathes, his hands grasping my thighs. “You’re a woman. Not an assassin. Just the girl I want to taste.”

His breath hits my wet center.

“Who am I, angel?”

His tongue finds me again, and I groan.

“Who.” His voice vibrates against my clit. “Am.” A calloused thumb joins his tongue. “I?”

“No one,” I answer without pause or hesitation and let my hips fall back. “You’re nothing.” Everything.

“We are nothing,” he agrees. His hands close around my hips and pull me down until I’m flush against his thighs, his breath against the back of my neck. “Just shadows.” One of his hands dives between my legs. “Shadows intertwined.” He peels the straps of my dress down with his other.

I’m breathless as he palms my center and parts my thighs. I let my knees fall open, let my head tilt back to rest against his chest.

I want to be the woman who shoves him away, who doesn’t crumble beneath the Bond’s power. I want to kill him. Here. Now. To be done with his words and his touch.

But he’s a shadow.

And I’m not an assassin.

Gods, he may as well have my ability to command Fate with the way his mouth convinces me.

I listen to the frantic thud of his heart and drag a finger over his pulse. “Maybe it’s you who’s scared of the dark, my snake.”

His chest falters, and I find sanctuary in that tiny slip. This affects him. He hides it behind pretty words, but I know he must feel the pull just as I do. It gives me some peace to know I’m still in control, no matter how much my body betrays my willpower.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, giving me pause. “Yes, my angel. I’m terrified of this dark.”

I clutch the back of his neck.

I hate that I understand, but I do. This connection we have is horrifying and thrilling. To be consumed so thoroughly by another person. I’m afraid of who I’ll become being touched by him. Afraid I’ll become less.

“Nothing,” he repeats, and it’s then I know his words haven’t been just for me.

“Nothing,” I echo and tilt my chin to bite his chest.

I run my tongue between his pecks, desperate for light. Does he flush with heat as I do? How much more fun could I have if I traced his tattoos with my tongue? With a knife?

My snake . The thought isn’t the worst. The guilt is fucking crippling, but his fingers against my clit help.

I moan, sacrificing my shame, my dignity. My thighs tremor and I press heavily into his grip.

His possessive, dark hum rumbles against my shoulder. He marks me with teeth and tongue, biting along the edge of my pulse, and I grind, lost to the sensation of him.

He’s still bare, his thick cock nudging against my slick heat with every shift of our bodies. Then his free hand rises, rough and sure, gripping the top of my dress.

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispers.

Chills race across my chest as the fabric slips away. My nipples harden in the cool air, and his mouth searches for them like he’s starved. Like he’ll only be satisfied when I come undone again.

Warrick’s lips trail up my neck before he nips at my ear. “Every inch of you is worth tasting. You won’t go another day without my tongue on your skin.”

My lungs squeeze as he sinks a finger inside me.

“My skin.” He bites my other shoulder, and I arch against him. “My pussy.” His finger thrusts deeper, relentless.

“Warrick—” His name breaks out of me.

The knot between us chokes with every flick and carefully timed thrust. It’s the cruelest battle to be undone by him. Because of him.

I bite my lip until I taste blood. I can’t let him have this. I can’t let him have me .

Not. Yet.

Then his breath hits my ear. “My. Woman.”