Page 45 of Torgash

"Torgash, please—"

His fingers hook in the lace at my hips, dragging the fabric down my legs with deliberate slowness. When I'm finally bare before him, he takes a moment to just look.

"Perfect," he breathes.

Then his mouth is on my inner thigh, lips and teeth working their way higher. When his tusks graze sensitive skin, I cry out at the contrast—cool hardness against flushed flesh.

His mouth moves higher, breath hot against my center, and I'm trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demands.

"Your mouth," I gasp. "Please, I need—"

The first stroke of his tongue tears a cry from my throat. He's relentless, skilled, building me higher with each calculated touch. His tusks graze my inner thighs as he works, the cool contrast making me arch against him. When his tongue finds exactly the right spot and circles with maddening precision, I'm already trembling on the edge. Then he slides one thick finger inside me, and I nearly come apart.

"Not yet," he commands, pulling back. "When you come, it's because I decide you've earned it."

A whimper escapes me before I can stop it.

"Please," I beg, all pride forgotten.

He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me in ways that remind me he's not human. Everything about him is bigger, stronger, more intense.

"Look at me," he orders when my gaze drifts closed.

His free hand catches my chin and holds me there until I force them open, meeting his burning stare. Something primal lurks there. Unleashed. Raw.

"Say my name," he commands, thumb finding that perfect spot.

"Torgash," I breathe.

"Again."

"Torgash, please, I can't—"

"You can." His tone turns hypnotic. "Let go, Nova."

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes pleasure explode through my vision. The climax builds with relentless pressure, mounting until I'm teetering on the edge.

"Come for me," he orders. "Now."

The command breaks the last thread of control I've been clinging to. Permission to stop fighting myself, to finally let go.

The orgasm rips through me, stealing my breath and buckling my spine. My back arches off the table as pleasure tears through every nerve ending. I cry out his name as surge after surge overwhelms me.

He works me through it, fingers gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping.

When awareness slowly returns, his hand slides under my neck, lifting me to meet his mouth as it crashes down on mine. The kiss is fierce, claiming, tasting my surrender on his lips. His tusks graze my bottom lip, the careful scrape of his tusks making me gasp against him. I can taste myself on his tongue, feel the barely leashed hunger in the way he devours my mouth. When he finally pulls back, his gaze is molten amber.

"Mine," he growls against my lips, and I don't have the strength or desire to argue.

For a long moment, we stay like that—his forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard. Then he pulls back slightly, and I realize I'm sprawled across the war room table, thoroughly debauched. Ash hovers over me with concern etched in the lines around his amber depths.

"You okay?" he asks, tone gentler than I've ever heard.

I nod, not trusting my words yet. My body feels like it's been taken apart and put back together.

He scoops me up easily, carrying me to the oversized leather chair in the corner. He settles into it with me cradled in his lap, and I can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against me, but his hands only hold, only comfort. The leather of his cut is warm against my bare back, softened by years of wear. He took nothing for himself. This was entirely about breaking me apart and putting me back together.

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