Page 128 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

All I can do is feel as he strokes me with expert precision, coaxing pleasure from my body like he’s done this a thousand times before. My nails rake down his back, desperate for something to hold onto, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t relent.

He watches me, drinking in every gasp, every moan, every twitch of my hips as I chase the pressure building inside me.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough, commanding. My eyes flutter open, barely able to focus as the coil tightens in my stomach. “I want to see you when you come for me.”

His thumb circles, and presses, building my ecstasy far too fast without even filling me yet. I want to tame myself, but I can’t. Not with that heavy needing gaze that’s boring into me,making me quiver while his fingers do the easy work of bringing me to the edge.

Until I shatter.

“Atticus!” I moan without a care of how loud I am.

The world narrows to nothing but him — the way his name rips from my lips, the way his arms wrap around me, grounding me even as I come apart in his grasp.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until I’m nothing but a trembling mess in his arms.

Before I can catch my breath, he’s lifting me, my pants now gone, wrapping my legs around his waist, his mouth on mine again, hot and desperate.

“Not done with you yet,” he growls, grinding against me, the friction sending another pulse of need straight through me.

Gods, I don’t care that we only have minutes.

I don’t care about anything but this, but him. I pull him closer, nails digging into his shoulders as I arch against him.

“Then stop talking,” I whisper against his lips. “And finish what you started.”

His answering smirk is pure sin, then he’s moving and has me swiftly laid out on the closest desk, grabbing my wrists and pressing his body over me as he claims me completely.

Time may be frozen beyond this room, but here, with Atticus, every second is a lifetime of longing finally fulfilled.

Atticus’s breath is hot against my throat, his body a cage of muscle and need as he presses me harder into the desk beneath us.

Every sharp inhale, every rasp of his breath, is laced with raw possession, a hunger that has been denied for far too long. His fingers tighten on my wrists, keeping them pinned above my head, his strength an unyielding force that makes my heart pound in anticipation.

“Please,” I begin, desperate to get moving, knowing how pressure time is in this moment.

He chuckles darkly.

“Please, what, myWicked Wife?” His lips ghost over my jaw, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. “You need my cock?”

I nod frantically, heat curling in my belly.

“Yes, fuck, please?—”

But he doesn’t give me what I want. Instead, he moves lower, aligning himself at my entrance, teasing me with the blunt, swollen tip of his cock.

The moment I feel the sheer size of him, my breath catches.

Oh, fuck.

I knew he’d be big —he carries himself with that preserved, dangerous confidence that screams he knows exactly what he’s working with—but nothing could prepare me for the stretch, theheftof him as he rubs his thick length against my folds, coating himself in my arousal.

Atticus catches my expression, that small moment of realization flickering in my eyes, and a smug smirk tugs at his lips.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, rubbing the broad head of his cock against my slit again, dragging it up to tease my clit before sliding back down. “Didn’t think I’d be this big?”

I bite my lip, unable to stop the needy whimper that escapes.

His smirk deepens, wicked and triumphant.

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