Page 69 of The Shadow Sanctum

My head tips back against his shoulder. I bite down on a sound, but it rips free anyway, a shuddering moan that has my knees softening beneath me.

“That’s it.” His voice is a rasp I feel more than hear. His hand is relentless, coaxing me higher. “Let it out, baby girl.”

It happens in a rush. Pleasure breaks over me like a wave that knocks the air from my lungs. My body locks and then trembles violently, and a raw, unfiltered cry escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. The walls here are thin. If my presence wasn’t known before, it is now.

Sawyer holds me up through every aftershock, his chest solid against my back, his hand firm at my hip. There’s no space between us, just heat and the sound of my own ragged breaths.

When I sag in his arms, his fingers slip free. He drags a slow, wet line along my thigh before releasing me entirely.

“On the bed,” he says, low, deliberate.

I move without thinking. My weak arms wobble beneath me as I crawl onto the mattress with my pulse still pounding in my ears. I stop in the center to catch my breath, until his palm presses between my shoulder blades.

“Hands and knees.”

The words are soft, but they leave no room for negotiation.

A curtain of silver locks frames my face as I plant my palms into the mattress. I think that’s it for the mirror, but when Sawyer drags it around the bed to rest in front of me, I know he isn’t finished yet.

The mattress dips as his knees bracket mine, and his hands find my hips with a grip that pins me in place. Without a word, he fists my hair and yanks me up so I’ll look at myself. I flick my eyes at him and note the heat in his eyes, the firmness of his jaw.

I know he isn’t actually this serious. I know part of him is playing a role.

I bet he could be just about any kind of lover. Put on any mask necessary. If I didn’t know he loved it, I might ask that he take it off. I almost do.

But then I feel the thick mushroomed velvet of flesh against my entrance, and the idea of talking feels senseless. The heat of him spreads me open, only to hover. A deliberate pause while I grip the comforter and hold my breath. His fingers flex on my hips.

Then, slow and deep, he pushes in.

My eyes shut on instinct, lips parting in a soundless gasp as I stretch to take him. He doesn’t rush. Each inch a claim, a reminder of exactly where I am and who I’m giving this to.

When he’s fully inside me, his hands slide up my sides and frame my ribs before trailing back down to grip my hips again.

He draws back slowly, then thrusts forward with a force that pushes a sharp sound from my throat. The bed groans beneath us, the rhythm starting low, steady, each stroke measured, building.

His pace shifts.

Slow gives way to something harder, sharper, each thrust pushing me forward on my hands. The bed squeaks faintly in time, but the sound is almost lost under the rough pull of his breath.

One hand leaves my hip to snake up my spine and flattens between my shoulder blades. When he presses, my elbows give under the pressure. I fall to the mattress with my cheek brushing the sheets as he drives into me.

My neck cranes to watch the mirror even without him prodding, but it’s him I can’t take my eyes off of. His intensity, his scars, his boyish face, his beautiful eyes.

He’s perfection, I realize as he fucks me. Just like he claimed I am, and as big of a liar as he is, I know he meant it. The thought hits me so hard, I want to cry. Sob. But my mouth is too busy making other sounds.

Every movement drags a moan from me, low, needy, impossible to swallow down. Sawyer doesn’t speak, doesn’t let me breathe between the force of his hips, just keeps me exactly where he wants me, taking what he gives.

When his hand slides into my hair and fists at the base of my skull, my back arches, and the angle changes. The new depth has my fingers clawing the mattress, a strangled cry slipping free.

“Fuck.” A rasp—his voice is rough with effort. His brutal grip in my hair pulls my head back so my spine bows. His palm cracks against my ass.

One word glows bright red in my mind: harder.

“More.”

His hips snap forward, the thrust sharp enough to make me gasp. “You want me to fuck you harder?” The sting from his palm still blooms across my skin, but the force behind his movements eclipses it.

“Hit me harder.”