Page 32 of Sold Bullied Mate

But then it comes again.

Knocking. Someone is knocking on my bedroom door.

Delirious, stupid, or willfully ignorant, I reach forward and swing it open, body swaying when I see that it’s Kira standing on the other side.

Kira, with her golden-red hair, loose and mussed around her shoulders, curls tumbling down haphazardly. Kira’s flashinggilded eyes, her flushed cheeks, that bottom lip that I want to run the pad of my thumb over.

It’s her. My mate.

And the smell of her lust is so heady, so potent, that I can practically feel the way she’s squeezing her thighs together, feel how wet she is just from her heat, the need that must be coursing through her body just as it’s coursing through mine.

Heat and rut. Omega and alpha.

“Please,” she rasps, her hands squeezed to fists at her sides, before one rises to the doorframe, like she needs the extra support just to stay on her feet. “Please, Dorian. I need you.”

I reach out, wrap my arm around her, and yank her inside my bedroom, bringing my lips crashing against hers.

Chapter 20 - Kira

Dorian, Dorian, Dorian.

My head repeats the name like a chant. A prayer. Willing him not to disappear the moment I touch him.

And he doesn’t.

The moment we come together again, he lets out a groan that morphs into a growl, lifting me up. Acting on instinct, I wrap my legs around him, and that makes the sound coming from his throat even worse, more guttural and desperate.

He walks me over to his dresser and sets me down on top, leaning in, pressing our chests together so we’re flush hip to shoulder. We kiss and kiss, hands frantic, tongues sliding together, the beat of the kiss deep inside me, like a song we’re playing together, making it up as we go along.

“Kira,” he pants, and when he looks at me, his pupils are blown so big it’s almost alarming. His scent swims around me, heady and warm, and I could float on it.

His cock pressesdeliciouslybetween my legs, and I grind against it, wishing I had any of my skirts or dresses, something that would give him easier access than the jean shorts I have on now. He scrapes his hands roughly over my body, as if checking to make sure I’m real, dragging at the hem of my tank top, tugging on the tips of my hair, letting out a noise when his palms sink into the soft flesh of my inner thighs.

“Fucking hells,” he rasps, pulling back like it’s the last thing he wants to do, like he’s willingly cutting off his oxygen supply. “Kira—”

“Here—” I’m reaching down, starting to unbutton my shorts, to shimmy them off my legs, but his hand darts out and he grabs my wrists, looking absolutely choked.

My gaze flies up to his, heart stopping.

“Kira,” he gasps. “I need—I need to make sure that youwantthis—that it’s not just the heat—fuck—”

“I want this,” I breathe, shaking and sliding my hands up over his shoulders. “I’ve wanted this for longer than I can remember, Dorian. From the day I knew it was something worth wanting, I’ve wanted you.”

Maybe it’s not coherent, but it makes sense. And he seems to get what I’m saying, because he nods, voice low as he says, “Me too, Kira. In high school, it was the worst.”

“Really?”

That takes the breath out of me—he noticed me? Hewantedme? Because every time I saw him, he was leveling insults at me, flicking food from across the cafeteria, crossing to the other side of the hallway, claiming I “stunk.”

“Really,” he growls, and then he’s lifting me, walking me effortlessly to his bed. I cinch my ankles together around his waist, but he has no problem carrying me, holding up my weight.

When my head hits the pillow, his hands are everywhere, tugging the ribbed black tank top up over my head.

“Fuck,” he hisses, when the shirt is across the room and my cleavage is bare, bra still on. I flush red, and I know it spreads down over my breasts, splotchy, hot. He traces a finger over the curve of my breast, follows the line down the band, and finally hooks his fingers into the clasp, undoing it with a single flick of his hand.

I let out an embarrassing sound, and an even more embarrassing one when he lowers his head and covers a nipple with his mouth.

“Oh.” My eyes are locked on the place where his lips are touching my skin—not the first time ever, but the first time in this spot, the first time I’m feeling his total devotion, his hunger, his tongue circling my nipple, then rubbing roughly against it, the pressure enough that my back starts to arch.

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