Page 208 of Emylia

I looked him dead in the eye, heat pulsing through every word. “No. I want you inside me.”

He went utterly still. As if time held its breath.

“That night with you, wasn’t enough,” I said, every syllable blazing. “I want more. I want everything. I want to feel you lose control. I want to take it from you.”

His eyes darkened like storm clouds swallowing the sky. His breath turned ragged. And that flicker of restraint he wore like armor?

Gone.

“Say it again,” he growled.

I stepped into him, mouth grazing his. “Please. Claim me. All of me.”

Something in him snapped.

He made a sound—part growl, part curse—and then his hands were everywhere. Down my back. Around my thighs. Lifting me. My legs wrapped around his waist as he slammed me against his chest like he needed the contact to breathe.

His mouth devoured mine—wild, consuming, like this was the moment he’d been starving for since the day we met. A kiss that destroyed. That rebuilt. That burned.

When he pulled away, I was breathless—wrecked.

“That night,” he rasped, voice frayed at the edges, “will be nothing compared to what I’m about to do to you. If you let me.”

“Shit,” I whispered. “Yes.”

That was all it took.

He gripped my ass tighter, carried me with single-minded ferocity. Rain lashed at us the moment we broke through the trees—sharp, cold, and merciless—but Maalikai didn’t flinch. He just held me tighter, walking straight into the downpour like he didn’t even feel it. Like I was the only thing tethering him to the world.

His boots pounded across the slick stone path, water soaking our hair, our shoulders, both soaked to the bone—but neither of us cared. The heat between us scorched through the cold.

My breath hitched. He carried me like I was weightless.

Like I was his.

We reached the house. He bypassed the main door, heading for the spiraling stairs, his pace unrelenting. He took them two at a time—bounding strides that jarred breath from both of us. I shifted against him, thighs tightening, hips pressing, and he growled low in his throat—wrecked and wanting.

“You’re not helping,” he muttered.

“Not trying to.” I shot back.

His jaw flexed. That flicker of restraint nearly returned—until I leaned in and nipped his neck, teasing.

That was all it took.

By the time we reached the top, the world had narrowed to this: his body, my need, and the inferno sparking between our skin.

He kicked the door open and stepped inside. The hinges groaned in protest, nearly drowned out by the thunder still grumbling outside.

He slammed the door behind us, muffling the storm.

The flicker of firelight spilled from the hearth, casting long shadows across the wooden floor as he strode through the room with purpose—our soaked bodies pressed so close there was no telling where I ended and he began.

He didn’t hesitate.

He pressed me to the wall like he needed something solid beneath us before we both unraveled. His mouth crashed into mine—wild, consuming, reverent. His hands roamed, frantic but sure, mapping me like a man memorizing every line before the fall.

The storm outside might as well have been inside us—the wind, the fire, the fury of everything we’d been holding back.

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