Page 107 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

A growl rumbled through his chest and he ground his hips into hers. The pressure tore a gasp from her throat. She felt him through his trousers, straining against her, and knowing how much he wanted her sent a liquid rush of heat between her thighs.

Her legs parted on instinct. She reached between them to touch him.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you now.”

He drew back slowly, and she felt the loss of his warmth keenly. He stood at the edge of the bed and stripped—each layer shed like a concession he’d never made for anyone else. She watched his composure fall away with each article of clothing.

Until there was nothing left to hide behind.

He was beautiful. All of him bared for her. Only for her.

The dark swirls she’d glimpsed at his collarbone spread farther than she’d imagined—shifting as she watched, winding down his chest, curling along his ribs, spiraling over his abdomen in slow, pulsing whorls. They narrowed at his hips, then swept inward, tracing the V of his lower belly in twin arcs.

She couldn’t look away. Without breaking her gaze, he wrapped his hand around himself and stroked—once, slow, deliberate. The sight of it—his fingers circling his length, the markings pulsing beneath his grip, his jaw tight—stole her breath. He stroked again, slower, and the sound that escaped his throat settled low in her belly.

She couldn’t just watch. She didn’t want to just watch.

Her hand covered his. He stilled, fingers loosening beneath hers, yielding to her lead. When she wrapped her grip around him—warm skin, rigid heat—his abdomen clenched. She stroked once, twice, her thumb tracing one of the spiraling lines along his length.

He threw his head back, his groan low and wrecked. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched the markings shift with his breath. Then he moved.

Ark knelt between her thighs, holding her open. “Still sure?” he asked.

She nodded.

He notched himself at her entrance and pushed inside. She cried out, her head snapping back. Her body clenched, resisted for a heartbeat, then yielded, opening for him inch by torturous inch. She felt everything: the blunt pressure, the burn, the deep invasion when he finally seated himself to the hilt. A sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and he stilled immediately, chest heaving.

“Cassia.” Her name was a wrecked prayer. “Tell me.”

“Don’t stop.” She dug her nails into his shoulders. “Please. I need⁠—”

He moved.

Each slow thrust was a deep, deliberate drag stealing air from her lungs. Stars burst behind her closed lids. She felt his gaze on her face—burning, tracking every gasp, every helpless sound she made. His hand slid between them, thumb finding the slick peak where they joined, circling in time with his strokes.

The thrusts were slow, but the pleasure built fast and fierce, coiling low in her belly.

He shifted, lifting her legs, pushing them toward her shoulders. The new angle opened her completely, and when he thrust again, he was deeper than she thought possible. So deep she felt him in her throat, in her bones, in the spaces between her thoughts. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.

But she needed . . . more. Closer, faster, every inch of him taken and given back again. She needed to be the one driving him, to feel him lose control beneath her.

Cassia pushed at Ark’s chest. He understood—rolled onto his back and pulled her with him. She straddled his hips, breath heaving, reached between them, and guided him back to her entrance. The blunt heat pressed against her, and when she sank down⁠—

Her vision went white. A raw moan tore from her throat. She braced her hands on his chest and rolled her hips. The sensation destroyed her—a slow grinding at the very end that made her back arch. She could feel him watching her, his gaze like a brand on her skin, and she wanted him to watch. Wanted him to see what he did to her.

She rode him slowly at first, drawing out every sensation, the slick drag of him, the way his hands gripped her thighs—hard enough to bruise. She hoped they would. The small pain sent sparks up her spine. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, wild and tangled, and she found a quick rhythm that made her gasp, that made his hips buck beneath her.

His hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing over the peaked tip. She shivered, riding him harder now, chasing the friction. He let her set the pace—let her use him.

“You’re unreal,” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “You were made to be worshipped.”

She looked down at him—the gold bleeding into his eyes, his jaw clenched with effort, the swirling marks shifting—and whispered, “Then worship me.”

He sat up in one smooth motion, still inside her, and wrapped an arm around her back. His mouth crashed into hers—hungry, bruising, desperate. She moaned into the kiss, her fingers finding his horns, brushing the ridged curves. His hips thrust up, driving deeper, and he swore against her lips.

“Cassia—”

“I like when you say my name like that,” she murmured, lips grazing his throat, feeling his pulse hammer under her tongue. “Say it again.”