Page 239 of Maksym

Twice.

“Grace.”

“Yes,” I said.

He entered me from behind in one slow, controlled thrust. The stretch stole the breath from my lungs.

I bowed forward, hands braced against the bed, and he stopped with his hips flush against me, buried deep. He waited. His hands gripped my hips, not hard enough to bruise, though I would have healed. He gave me the time to feel him, to adjust around him, to choose the next movement.

I pushed back.

His breath left him in a low, rough sound.

Then he moved.

The first strokes were slow. Deep. Measured. He leaned over my back, his chest covering me, one arm braced beside mine. His mouth found the space between my shoulder blades and kissed there, then up my spine, each thrust pressing him deeper, each kiss traveling higher until his lips brushed the curve of my neck.

The position should have made me feel overpowered.

Instead, I felt surrounded.

His breath warmed my skin. His body covered mine. The bond pulsed with restraint. I could feel what it cost him not to take everything his hunger wanted at once. That knowledge lit something vicious and tender inside me.

“More,” I whispered.

His hips snapped harder. I cried out. He did it again.

Then his arms came under mine, and he pulled me upright.

My back met his chest. Still inside me, he settled onto his knees and drew me down onto him, one arm banding across my ribs to hold me flush against him. The change drove him deeper. My head fell back against his shoulder, a moan opening my throat to the fire-lit room.

His free hand slid down my stomach.

When his fingers found my clit, my entire body jolted.

“Maksym—”

“Here,” he murmured against my ear. “Stay with me here.”

He rubbed slow circles while rocking up into me from below. Not fast. Not frantic. Controlled enough to ruin me. His cock filled me with every upward thrust, his fingers keeping steady pressure until pleasure began to spiral out from that point in bright, ruthless waves.

I tipped my head back. My neck bared against his mouth.

The air changed.

His fangs descended; I felt the faint graze before he bit. He did not take without asking, not even now, not even with the bond wild between us. His lips pressed against my pulse.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

The word had barely left me when his fangs sank into my throat. Pain flashed. Then venom turned it molten.

I cried out as he drank in long, steady pulls. His arm tightened across my ribs, holding me to him, his hips driving up while his mouth fed from me. The sensation was impossible to separate into parts. His cock inside me. His fingers circling my clit. His fangs in my neck. His pleasure flooding back through the bond, dark and male and overwhelming.

I felt him taste me. Felt the way my blood struck him. Felt his control shudder. Mine broke first.

The climax came hard enough to tear sound from me. I shouted, riding up and down on him because my body had taken over and apparently my new body had opinions. My thighs shook. My inner muscles clenched around him, and he groaned against my throat, still drinking, still moving, still holding me as if I could convulse apart and he would keep me together by force if necessary.