Series: Charmaine Pauls
Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Aruan’s face comes into focus as he pulls away to look at me. His jaw is bunched, and sweat beads on his forehead. The look in his eyes is one of utter concentration.
He’s holding back. For my sake.
“Do it,” I say, grinding my teeth together against the pain. “Finish this already.”
“No.” The word is harsh, but his expression is tender. “I won’t let you rush me. I’m going to take my time with you.”
I moan in despair. “Aruan, please.” Tears I can’t hold back run from the corners of my eyes. “I beg you, please end this.”
He kisses away the tears and whispers in my ear those sweet nothings I don’t want to hear, encouraging words and praise for how well I’m taking him.
Him.
This is all about him.
And just when I’m about to hurl the accusation at him, the pain turns into something different, a pleasure much more carnal and intense than I experienced when he used his mouth.
“Ah.” I shift my hips, seeking stimulation despite the rawness inside. “More.”
“Slowly,” he says with a chuckle. “Or you’ll be too sore to walk tomorrow.”
Why can’t he just do what I ask? When I want him to stop, he moves, and when I want him to go faster, he goes slowly.
“You’re insufferable,” I choke out.
“If I’m insufferable, it’s because I don’t want you to be tender afterward.”
But even as he says it, he starts to thrust with a lazy pace that soon has me delirious with need again. I wrap my legs around his ass and lift myself higher.
“Dragons,” he mutters, gripping my fingers so hard they ache.
“Aruan, please…” I clench around him, needing this like nothing before.
The expression on his face is equal parts agonized pleasure and victory. “Are you begging me to fuck you, mate?”
He told me I’d beg, he warned me, but I can’t even bring myself to care. “Do you want me to?” I manage to ask with a bite. “Will it make you feel more wanted? More desirable?”
“So dramatic.” He clucks his tongue even as more beads of sweat appear on his forehead. “You don’t have to beg for what already belongs to you.”
There’s something wrong with that statement, but I don’t stop to examine it. Sensing that he’s close to losing control, I don’t slow down like I know I should. No, I test my power over him, tempting the beast by rubbing my nipples over his chest and moving my hips faster.
The breakdown comes quicker than I anticipated and long before I’m ready for it. Letting go of my hands, he locks his fingers in a bruising grip on my hips and holds me fast to the bed as he pounds into me with a crazed rhythm, pummeling my body into a speedy submission of fluttering spasms as another orgasm explodes through me, contracting my inner muscles around his cock.
“Elsie,” he growls.
The power of his thrusts would shift me over the mattress if he weren’t pinning my hips onto the bed. The loss of his control is both petrifying and beautiful. But I no longer feel the fear or the pain. All I’m conscious of is the earth-shattering—or rather, Zerra-shattering—pleasure that overwhelms me physically and mentally. I’m like jelly, incapable of moving or thinking. I can only lie there beneath him, shivering with brutal aftershocks of unending ecstasy.
He slams into me one last time before his whole body goes taut. His cock grows impossibly thick, and then a flush of warmth bathes me inside. A ripple of pleasure runs through me, goosebumps covering my skin. Locked inside me, he rides out his pleasure with a clenched jaw, his features set as if he’s in pain.
When it’s over, he rests his forehead against mine to catch his breath. Finally, he releases my hands to wrap me up in his arms and cradle me against the welcome heat and safety of his chest. My arms go around him instinctively, needing something to hold on to. He buries his face in my neck and kisses a tender spot before nuzzling the curve of my shoulder.
It’s done.
We’ve mated.
If I expected something to happen—some feelings to change or a bond to appear magically—I’m sorely disappointed. Stripped of physical pleasure, all that remains is the same old anger and confusion.
He pushes onto his elbows, studying my face. “How are you doing?”
I frown. “Aside from feeling as if I’ve been ripped in two?” Everything crashes down on me, all the accumulated irritation and built-up rage. The unjustness. Tears gather at the back of my eyes, but I refuse to shed them. I bite hard on my lip to prevent myself from giving him that weakness. Instead, I lash out, fighting with the only weapon I have. “I hate you.”
“I know,” he says with easy acceptance that irks me more than I’d like to admit. His tone is sober. “I can tell by the mere fact that our mating isn’t complete.”