Page 35

His eyes settle on what’s left, nothing more than some sliced fruit and a piece of bread, and I watch him visibly reel his temper back in before it costs him the rest.

“I just want out of this room,” he says quietly, gesturing toward the window, like the answer is right there in front of me. “Please. It’s not like I can leave the castle.”

I close the distance between us, grab him by the collar, and yank him toward me until there’s barely any space left between us.

“Even if you could,” I say darkly, holding his gaze, “I would hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

Why he’s sunk so deeply beneath my skin, I’ll never know. Perhaps it’s because he’s the first person I’ve really come across after being alone for so long. Maybe it’s simply the way he looks. Or maybe it’s because he makes this place feel less empty, filling spaces I’d stopped noticing were vacant a long time ago.

My words hit their mark, and he lowers his gaze, refusing to look at me until mine drifts toward the bed and he realizes exactly where my attention has gone. We go through the same routine we always do, so familiar now that he seems to know what’s coming before I make a single move.

“No,” he says softly. “Not again. Please.”

The same words from him, the same pleas, repeated night after night until I could recite them myself.

I throw him onto the bed anyway, and he bounces once against the mattress before immediately trying to scramble away. I climb over him, straddle his body, and pin his arms down. It’s the same thing we do every night, the same struggle that begins the moment I get him onto the bed because he never simply gives in, no matter how many times we end up here.

That’s what I want from him more than anything. I want him to lie underneath me without fighting, without trying to get away. I want him to desire me with the same consuming intensity that I desire him.

I pull his clothes off, and the sight that greets me is the same one I’ve been staring at since the day he came here, though somehow, each time seems better than the last.

His body immediately begins to shake, but this time, I don’t shove his legs apart and thrust before he’s ready. The oil makes it easier, yes, but tonight I want something different from him, something I’ve never gotten from him before.

I want him to come.

I want his release covering us both.

“Lie still,” I murmur.

His only response is a quiet sob, the same as always.

I slide my hand between his legs, and his entire body grows tenser. But instead of preparing him to take me, I curl my fingers around his length and his hips buck immediately.

I stroke him carefully, discovering what works as I go because this is as much of a learning curve for me as it is for him. Then, just when I think I know exactly how he’ll respond, he does something unexpected, something he’s never done before.

He moans, and the sound—God, that sound—goes straight through me.

I tighten my grip and pick up the pace, but he hisses in pain and grimaces, so I immediately loosen my hold and slow down. That’s when he realizes what I’m doing, and his gaze snaps to mine as he props himself up on his elbows and watches me warily. Nervously. But when my finger rubs over the head of his cock, his head drops back.

I try different things, changing the pressure and movement until his hand suddenly shoots out and covers mine. “Too rough,” he gasps. “It hurts.”

Then he moves my hand with his own, showing me exactly what it’ll take to get him there and guiding me into the movement he wants. “Like that,” he manages. “Gentle.”

I follow his lead because he’s not fighting me now, and he’s lying still exactly like I wanted. His leg draws up, his breathing deepens. I keep my hand moving the way he showed me.

And then it happens, his back arching as a cry tears from his throat and white ropes of cum shoot from his opening, painting his chest as his stomach contracts. Even his toes curl into the sheets on either side of me. It’s an incredible sight, one I can’t seem to look away from, but it’s over far too quickly. Within seconds, he’s grabbing my wrist and begging me to stop.

I release him only so I can dip my fingers into the release covering his front while he collapses back against the mattress, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. The moment he feels my fingers touching him again, though, his entire body tenses.

He’s waiting for me to hurt him, expecting it even. When I widen his legs with my own and reach to remove my slacks, he places both hands on the mattress at his sides and braces himself.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he says quietly.

It gives me pause as I study that remarkable face that has me so captivated, searching his expression before I finally answer, “Then stop fighting me.”

It’s as though I’m asking for the one thing he simply cannot give, but after a long moment, he finally nods and says, “Okay,” taking me completely by surprise.

Even when I shove a finger inside him, he grimaces and softly says, “Ow,” but he doesn’t fight me. Even though his legs shake violently against my sides.