Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"That's my girl." His voice is a low, ruined thing against my breast. "Take all of it. Every fucking inch."
I'm trying. God, I'm trying. My thighs are burning and shaking and I can't find a rhythm because he keeps breaking it—slamming into me at a different angle every few strokes, like he's searching for the spot that makes me lose language entirely. He finds it. He always finds it. And when he does, my spine arches so hard my head tips back and all I can see is the ceiling of this trailer, this beautiful nothing trailer that smells like Chinese food and lavender candles and him.
"Look at me." His hand comes up and catches my jaw, pulling my face back down. "Eyes on me when I'm inside you, Savannah."
I force my eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, sweat beading at his temples, the tendons in his neck straining. He looks like war. He looks like the only church I've ever believed in.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Like you're splitting me in half," I breathe. "Like I'll die if you stop."
Something shifts behind his eyes—something possessive and tender at the same time, the combination that only Legion can pull off, the one that makes me feel simultaneously owned and worshipped.
He slides a hand between us and presses his thumb against my clit, and I jerk hard enough that he has to grip my hip with his other hand to keep me from falling off his lap entirely.
"Don't you dare come yet," he says.
"I can't—Legion, I can't—"
"You can." His thumb circles slow. Deliberately slow. A counterpoint to how hard and fast he's fucking me, and the contradiction is so cruel I could cry. "You'll come when I tell you. Not before."
I dig my nails into his shoulders and hold on. My whole body is vibrating—calves, thighs, stomach, chest—everything coiled so tight I can feel my own heartbeat between my legs, pounding against his cock every time he bottoms out inside me.
"Legion—"
"Not yet."
"I can't hold it—"
He pulls his thumb away and I sob. Actually sob. The relief and the loss hit at the same time and I bury my face in his neck, panting against his pulse while he fucks me steady and deep and merciless.
"Please," I whisper into his skin. "Please let me come. I need to come so bad, please—"
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You." No hesitation. No thought. "You, you, you—"
His thumb finds me again and presses hard, and at the same time he drives up into me with everything he has, and the words come out of his mouth low and final: "Now, Savannah. Come on my cock. Right now."
My body doesn't wait for my brain. The orgasm tears through me like something with teeth—starting where he's buried inside me and ripping outward through my hips, my stomach, my chest, my fucking fingertips.
I clamp down on him so hard he groans, this guttural, animal sound that vibrates through his chest into mine, and his rhythm breaks—stutters—turns savage.
Three more thrusts, each one deeper than the last, and then he buries himself to the hilt and holds me there, shaking, pouring into me while I pulse around him in waves that won't stop.
We stay like that. Connected. Trembling. His forehead against my collarbone, my fingers in his hair, both of us breathing like we just survived something that should've killed us.
I press my lips to his throat. Soft. Barely there. Just tasting the salt on his skin, feeling his pulse hammer against my mouth like it's trying to get to me through bone and muscle and everything else he keeps between himself and the world.
He exhales—this long, shuddering thing that moves through his whole body and into mine because we're still connected, still full of each other, and I can feel every breath he takes like it's happening inside my own lungs.
I drag my teeth along the tendon in his neck. Not hard. Just enough to make him tilt his head and give me more room, which he does without thinking, the way you lean into something that feels good before your brain catches up to tell you it's dangerous.
I smile against his skin and bite his earlobe, tugging gently, and his hands tighten on my breasts—not urgent anymore, just holding. Kneading slow. Thumbs brushing over my nipples in lazy circles like he's got nowhere to be and nothing to prove and all the time God ever made.
I find his mouth. Finally. And the kiss is different now. Not the frantic, teeth-clicking, bruising thing from before. This one is slow and warm. His tongue slides against mine and I sigh into it, actually sigh, like some ridiculous girl in a song, and I don't even care.
I can feel him still inside me, softening but not gone, and the mess we made together is everywhere—slick and warm between my thighs, pooling in his lap, and I should probably care about the couch but I don't. Not even a little.