Page 45 of Claimed By the Damned

The sheer vulnerability of the position, the soft weight of her against me, the memory of her trembling confession—it stokes the embers inside me all over again. I feel myself harden inside her tight heat, a slow, heavy pulse against her slick walls.

She gasps softly, eyes fluttering open to meet mine from above. There’s surprise there, but no fear. Only a dawning awareness, a mirrored need.

I brush a stray strand of hair from her forehead, my voice low. "Still want me, Baby Girl?"

Her answer is a breathless nod, her hips giving the slightest downward tilt against mine, an invitation.

This time, there is no frenzy, no harsh claiming. Supporting her hips with my hands, I guide the movement, pulling back slowly before thrusting gently upward, sinking back into her, stretching her, filling her inch by inch. Each thrust is measured, controlled, a silent promise. My gaze holds hers, watching the flicker of pleasure mixed with relief cross her features as she looks down at me. My hands roam her back, her sides, tracing the lines of her body as if memorizing them.

"Stay with me," I murmur, pressing kisses to her brow, her temple, the corner of her eye.

She clings to me, legs wrapping tighter around my waist, lowering herself onto my slow, deep rhythm. Her breath comes in soft pants, mixing with mine. It isn’t about desperation now; it’s about connection, about erasing the lingering shadows of fear with deliberate, loving friction. We move together, a slow dance of possession and surrender, until the tension builds again, coiling low and tight in both of us.

Her back arches, her head falling back as a soft moan escapes her lips. "Ryker..."

"That's it," I whisper, my own control fraying. I cup her face, pulling her down to kiss her deeply as I pick up the pace just slightly, driving up into her heat. "Come with me, Baby Girl."

Her answering cry is muffled against my mouth as her climax hits her, waves of release pulsing around me, milking me. Seeing her shatter, feeling her body clench around mine, tips me over the edge. With a final, deep upward thrust, I follow her, groaning her name as my release floods her, hot and heavy.

We lie panting, tangled together, her collapsing onto my chest, slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and mingled relief. I don't pull out, unwilling to break the fragile peace we've found.

Her fingers trace absent patterns over my chest, her breath warm against my skin. “Do you mean it?” she whispers after a long moment, her voice heavy with spent emotion.

I lift her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Mean what?”

“That I belong to you. That I’m safe.”

My jaw tightens. “Every fucking word.”

A soft, genuine smile ghosts her lips, the first real one I’ve seen from her in days. It hits me harder than her climax did.

"Sleep, Baby Girl," I murmur, stroking her back, pulling the covers up around us. "I’ve got you."

Her breath evens out almost immediately, her body relaxing fully against mine, boneless and trusting, like she finally believes it. That she’s safe. That she’s ours.

Her weight on my chest is grounding, her soft breaths a quiet rhythm against my skin. After a few minutes, when her breathing is deep and even, confirming she's truly asleep, I carefully, slowly reach over to the nightstand. My movements are slow, making sure not to jostle her. My fingers close around my phone.

Keeping her tucked securely against me with one arm, I use my free hand to quickly type out a message to the group chat with Bastian and Ethan.

Got a name…

I pause, then add:

She's asleep now. Finally calm. Give me a few hours. Then we talk.

I send it, silence the phone, and place it back on the nightstand without looking away from the woman sleeping peacefully on my chest. Relief washes over me, sharp and fierce, seeing her finally at rest.

And just like that, cocooned together, her sprawled trustingly on top of me, my cock still nestled loosely inside her, my own exhaustion finally claims me.

Protecting her takes precedence, but the knowledge that Bastian and Ethan are waiting, ready to strategize, settles something deep inside. We drift off—finding oblivion in the aftermath of the storm, the real fight only just beginning.

Chapter 16: Battle Lines Drawn

Bastian

It’s nearly two a.m., the house sunk in that dead-of-night quiet—just the low hum of the fridge—when I hear a door creak open down the hall.

Ryker storms out of his bedroom, shirtless, his tattoos stark against his skin in the dim hallway light filtering into the living room. His hair is a disaster that speaks volumes, and his expression is a mix of smug satisfaction and simmering fury. The bastard.

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