Page 36

“You’re angry,” he says.

“Observant.”

“At me.”

“At myself for still wanting the man who walked away.”

His control thins. I see it in the way his shoulders lock and then deliberately unlock, in the way his gaze drops to my mouth and stays there.

I step closer. My shoulder reaches only the lower plates of his chest. The scale of him has never made me feel small. I reach up, slow enough that he can stop me, and push the black hair back from the broken horn. The stump is warm under my fingertips. I used to know the exact shape of it in the dark.

He exhales. The sound is almost a growl.

“Beatrix.”

“I know.” My voice is steady even though my pulse is not. “This changes nothing about the lists or the station or the fact that you left. But I am tired of pretending I do not remember how you feel.”

His hand comes up and settles at the side of my neck, thumb resting just under my jaw. The restraint in that touch costs him; I can feel the tremor of it. He could span my entire throat without effort. He only holds me there while his silver eyes search mine.

I rise onto my toes. He meets me halfway, bending so the kiss does not strain either of us. His mouth is hotter than any human’s. The first press is careful. The second is not. I open for him and he takes the invitation with a low sound that vibrates through both of us. My fingers stay on the broken horn, anchoring me while the rest of the world narrows to heat and the taste of him and the residual anger that makes every contact feel like a fight I am choosing to lose.

He lifts me. One arm under my thighs, the other supporting my back. I am settled on the edge of the wide stone planter before I fully register the movement. Cool soil and trailing vines at my back. He steps between my knees. The gown rides up. His carapace plates are smooth and warm where they press against my inner thighs.

I reach for the fastenings of his lower armor. He lets me. The plates part under my stained fingers. What I free is thick, dark, already hard, the surface patterned with fine ridges that I remember with sudden clarity. He watches my face while I explore him with both hands, learning the weight and heat of him again after ten years.

“Still so careful with me,” I murmur.

“Always.” The word is rough. “Even when it costs.”

I guide him closer. The blunt head of him presses against me through the thin barrier of my underthings. I am already wet; the fabric is damp. He notices. A muscle jumps in his jaw. I hook my fingers in the cloth and drag it aside. The first contact of bare skin to bare skin draws a sharp breath from both of us.

He does not thrust. He waits, silver eyes locked on mine, until I roll my hips and take the first inch myself. I work myself down onto his cock in slow increments, feeling every ridge, every degree of heat. When I am fully seated the pressure sits deep enough that I have to brace both hands on the plates of his chest and breathe through it.

“All right?” he asks, voice strained.

“Yes.”

Hips rolling in a rhythm that lets me feel every thick inch on the way out and every stretching return. The planter edge digs into the backs of my thighs. I lock my ankles at the small of his back and meet each stroke. The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet solarium. My gown is rucked around my waist. My hair has come half-loose from the leather strip; strands stick to my damp neck.

He leans in so his forehead nearly touches mine. Black hair falls forward, brushing my cheek. The broken horn is close enough to kiss. I do. His rhythm falters for one heartbeat, then deepens. One of his hands spans my hip, guiding without forcing. The other slides between us, two fingers finding the swollen bud of my clit and rubbing in firm circles timed to his thrusts.

“You feel that?” he asks, low enough that the words travel through bone. “How wet you are for someone you claim to resent.”

“Shut up and keep going.”

He almost smiles. Then he does exactly as asked. The strokes turn longer, harder, still measured but with an edge of the violence he keeps leashed. Each drive forces a small sound out of me. Slick runs down the insides of my thighs and onto the stone. The sensation of his cock stretching me and his fingers working my clit coils the pleasure tight and fast.

I come with a broken cry, walls clamping hard around him. Clear fluid pulses out of me in a sudden rush, soaking his hand and the front of his plates. He keeps moving through it, drawing every contraction out until my legs shake and my vision narrows. Finally he slows, still buried deep, still hard, watching my face while I drag air into my lungs.

“Again,” I manage.

He lifts me off the planter without withdrawing, turns, and settles his own back against the stone so I am astride him. The new angle lets me take him even deeper. I plant my stained hands on his shoulders and ride him with rolling hips, grinding my clit against the hard plane of his body on every downstroke. His hands rest at my waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above my hipbones. The restraint in that touch is visible; his fingers flex and ease as though he is fighting the urge to grip harder.

“Look at you,” he says, voice frayed. “Taking all of me. Still so sharp even when you’re shaking on my cock.”

I dig my nails into the seams of his carapace and pick up the pace. The wet slap of our bodies fills the space between words. More slick gathers and drips; I can feel it running down his length with every rise and fall. The second orgasm builds slower, heavier. When it breaks I cry out against his mouth, body locking, another rush of fluid pulsing out of me around his cock. He growls my name and thrusts up to meet me through every wave, prolonging it until I am trembling and oversensitive.

We do not stop. He stands again, still inside me, and carries me the few steps to the wider bench beneath the climbing vines. I end up on my back, one of his massive hands braced beside my head, the other under my knee to open me wider. He drives into me with long, deep strokes that force the air from my lungs in short bursts. The ridges along his cock drag against every sensitive place inside me. I reach between us and rub my own clit, matching his rhythm, chasing a third peak that feels almost too much.