Page 111 of Twisted Devotion

“Fuck,” I gasp.

He cups the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss, his tongue tangling with mine, hot and consuming. My body rocks instinctively, my walls clenching around him. Then, without warning, he growls low in his throat and flips us over.

I don’t know how the fuck he does it without hurting himself, but I don’t care. My back hits the mattress, and before I can catch my breath, he slams back into me.

A scream tears from my lips.

He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to my clit.

Bracing himself against the headboard, he fucks me slow and deep, dragging out every sensation. My orgasm builds again, coiling tight inside me, wrapping around his cock, making me tremble.

My back arches, and when I come, my entire body clenches around him, locking him inside me. His rhythm falters, and then he groans my name, spilling his release into me, filling me until I feel like I might burst.

I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him close as we shudder together, our breathing ragged. Our eyes meet and something passes between us—something unspoken.

I love this man.

And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do about it.

26

NICOLAS

The wound is ugly.

I stand in front of the mirror, studying the angry red mark near my shoulder. It throbs—a dull, insistent ache radiating through my skin. I’ve had worse. My back and sides bear the proof of past battles, each scar a silent reminder of the wars I’ve fought and the men I’ve buried.

I exhale slowly and tug on a clean shirt. The fabric drags over my raw skin like sandpaper against a fresh bruise, but I don’t flinch. Pain is an old companion.

This wound isn’t my first and won’t be my last. But something about it feels different. I know I’ll never forget it—because of what I was fighting to gain and the people I was fighting to avenge.

I pull the towel from my waist, letting it drop to the floor as I grab a fresh pair of trousers from the dresser. That’s when I hear it—the soft rustle of sheets, the whisper of bare feet against the wooden floor.

I don’t turn. I don’t need to.

Aria.

Her presence fills the space before she even touches me. That familiar strawberry scent—sweet, intoxicating—wraps around me like a warm embrace. Then, her fingers brush over my shoulder, featherlight, tracing the jagged lines that mar my skin

She leans in, kissing the small, puckered scar near my spine. Then another. And another. I hold still, letting her touch me in a way no one else ever has.

She moves slowly, her lips ghosting over each mark, each faded reminder of the past. When she reaches the fresh wound, she hesitates. Her breath skates over the bruised skin before she presses the softest, most deliberate kiss to its edge.

Pain and pleasure blend, a sharp contrast that sends a shiver down my spine. I exhale slowly, controlled, but my body betrays me—heat coils low in my stomach, my cock is already twitching beneath my trousers.

“Try not to get hurt anymore,” she whispers against my skin. Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it. A quiet plea wrapped in a demand.

I lift my gaze to the mirror, meeting hers in the reflection.

Worry lingers in her dark eyes, the same concern that laces her voice. She stands behind me, swallowed in one of my shirts, the fabric draping over her small frame. The sleeves are too long, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, exposing just enough of her bare legs to make my blood burn.

Her hair is tousled from sleep, a few wild strands falling over her face, but looks perfect. Ethereal. Like something no man should be lucky enough to claim.

Mygoddess.

“I’m not ashamed of my scars, and I’m not afraid to earn more,” I say, holding her gaze through the mirror. “But more importantly, I don’t like seeing that worried look on your face. So I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you never have to see me like that again.”

She smiles, and something inside me tightens. The need to see that smile again, to keep it there, swells in my chest.

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