Page 72 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“You taste better than any heaven,” he pants, and oh God, I can taste myself on his wet lips. “Fucking incredible. I could die happily between those pretty legs of yours.”

The air bites my bare skin when he pries himself off me again with a clipped, “Don’t move.”

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as he takes a few steps back, and those skillful fingers move for the suffering laces at the front of his trousers. The knot comes undone, and he sheds the last piece of clothing barring us.

My breath hitches in my throat. He’s well-endowed, to say the least. Some of his arrogance almost starts to make sense.

A part of me still expects him to tease me for fully gaping at the first cock I’ve ever seen, erect at full attention as he saunters back to bed. But no—there’s a patient, pleased kind of gleam in his gaze when he returns to me, pulling me higher on the bed like not touching me for more than thirty seconds was a war crime.

I’ve imagined this moment before–how he might grin and viciously tease me the way he’d done that night at our temporary camp. I never once considered that he’d be so shockingly tender as he notches himself overtop me, kissing my swollen lips to offer familiar territory.

My chest swells as I allow my arms to wind around his neck, claiming everything I touch. His body presses me down into the mattress, the delicious weight making my breaths strain just a fraction. Just enough to remind me I’m not dreaming, that this is happening.

When we part for air, Dante’s toned arms are caging me on either side of my head, his face still inches from mine. It’s an achingly handsome face, and at this moment, I can’t remember why I’ve tried so hard to deny it. His chin-length gold hair hangs like a curtain, the disheveled quality only making him look all the more like a fallen angel. His erection is pressing against my entrance lightly, sending electric shivers coursing through me. My heart jumps into a gallop as our eyes meet. I know that look, the heated meaning behind it.

“I-I’ve never…” I stammer.

“I know.”

I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my face as he looks down at me, unnervingly patient despite that glaze of lust darkening his eyes. I’d be anxious with even the most average fellow, but Dante is above average in many ways—height included. And now, seeing all of him…

“No, it’s just—I’m…” I swallow hard, voice dropping. “Will it…fit?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smirk. He shifts to one arm, tucking a few unruly strands of soot-black hair off my face.

“It will fit, but it may hurt for a moment,” he says.

I search his face, then nod. Any pain will be my penance.

Dante fills me slowly. I’m wet enough that he slides in with little resistance—apart from my own body clenching up. I gasp and whimper at the brief, sharp sting that follows when my muscles stretch and tense around his width.

“Shhh, relax,” Dante purrs soothing words over me. I do my best to obey, acutely aware of each inch of progress he makes. “Breathe, that’s it. That’s it. Good girl.”

Through the haze, a bleary mantra surfaces in my mind: yes, I deserve this. I deserve this—and Dante is worthy to be my punisher and my sweetness.

“Oh God,” I gasp out, shrill and hoarse.

In a few seconds, the pain ebbs, replaced with an overwhelming fullness, heightened sensations flickering through every fiber of me. Our heavy breathing mingles as he moves skillfully, his tempo gradually rising.

“Fuck… This pussy,” Dante groans through his teeth like he’s having a religious experience, punctuated by a thrust that nearly shoves me up the bed. “So fucking tight—” Thrust. “And wet.”

I feel a thread forge between us as I cling to him, exertion beading like dew on our skin. I see every chance he’s had to kill me—all discarded. Every moment he’s protected me, even in his own twisted way. How he had comforted me. How he never asked to be the creature he’d become.

I kiss him again, shattering every rule I’d ever held dear.

Dante scans my face when we break apart, the faintest crease between his brows.

“Are you still—” he starts.

I cut him off, squeezing him roughly. “Harder. Please.”

His half-lidded gaze gleams, a dark smile flickering. I can take this. I need this.

He seizes my left arm and pins it over my head. I fight back a little, testing his strength. The sting of his grip solidifies to keep me where he’s put me while his thrusts turn punishing, eliciting an ache where his fingers close around my wrist. A sharp, breathless laugh escapes me when I catch the smirk that crosses his face—both of us pulled by the urge to prove ourselves a victor, even now, like the memories of sparring were never far from mind.

I can’t keep quiet now, moans spilling out of me. I can only be grateful for a brief, convenient clap of thunder outside that masks my strangled voice. At one point, Dante nearly folds me in half, with my knees tucked up by his shoulders. It’s hard not to feel like a plaything for a moment, a tool for pleasure—but the way he’s looking at me is nothing short of worshiping.

I’m powerless and a goddess all at once; both revered and defiled. I don’t feel used. I’m claiming a piece of him every bit as much as Dante is taking me.