Page 32 of First Verse

“No,” he whispers.

His thumb finds my chin and presses down, opening me to him. He breathes into my mouth. Hot, heavy, slow. Sucking me in, filling me up. Shivers wrack my body. My fingers and toes vibrate.

His groan expands my lungs, and then he’s kissing me like I’ve never been kissed before. Like he’s pouring the entirety of our lives into my mouth. Our tongues tangle like our verses used to: seamlessly, effortlessly.

I had no idea a kiss could feel like this. Like arriving somewhere I’ve never been but where I’ve always belonged.

I don’t notice we’re moving until we’re falling onto my bed, until the weight of him reminds me I have a body instead of only lips and tongue. I gasp when he breaks the kiss, instantly bereft without his lips on mine.

He rises above me and tugs my shirt up my chest. Hot, rough hands slide over my bare stomach to encompass my breasts. He squeezes them gently, his expression rapt in the too-bright room.

“I’ve thought about touching these for so long. Fucking them. Giving you a pretty pearl necklace.”

A choked moan leaves me as he circles my nipples with his thumbs. Lightly at first, then with more pressure until my breasts ache and my nipples are flushed and tingling. With a satisfied hum, he lowers his head. When his mouth covers one peak at the same time he pinches the other, I gasp his name.

“You like that, huh?” He punctuates the low words with flicks of his tongue and finger. His teeth scrape over hypersensitive flesh—I whimper. My hips lift, searching for him, but he shifts out of reach.

“I know you can be louder,” he says, dark amusement in his voice. “Let me hear you sing.”

He devotes himself to making me lose it, suckling my breasts, blowing onto wet skin, biting and massaging andfeastinguntil I’m giving him what he wants. Making sounds I’ve never made before. Feeling sensations I’ve never felt, like my breasts have a direct line to my clit.

Suddenly there’s pressure right where I need it, a heavy hand rubbing roughly. Fireworks explode in my head and I explode with them. He swallows my cries, kissing me with feverish intensity until I melt, boneless and twitching in the aftermath.

I open my eyes to find Wilder smiling down at me. His real smile. A little lopsided, one dimple deeper than the other. I haven’t seen the expression in so long, my heart tugs in my chest, aching and overfull. I touch his face, my fingertips dancing over his cheekbone where a single, small mole rests.

His smile falls. “Don’t,” he whispers. “This doesn’t end like one of your romance books. I’m no hero.”

Another tug in my chest, this one a scythe slicing through old, stale hopes. Themaybesandcould have beens.Silly wishes of a girl for her perfect love story, her perfect prince.

The pain fades fast, though, more nostalgia than anything else. I grieved that girl and her foolish dreams three years ago. I grieved the idea ofhim.Right now I’m not interested in a pretty, boring prince.

I want the villain.

I swallow, finding my voice. “Trust me, I know. You’re an asshole, and I’m ghosting you tomorrow.”

His lips twitch even as darkness flickers in his eyes. Tension ripples down his body. To break the unbearable moment, I arch into him. His gaze lowers to where I’m rubbing myself shamelessly against his erection.

“What are you waiting for? An invitation?” I angle my hands between us, coasting my palm over his cock before grabbing his belt buckle. “Fuck me like you hate me, Wilder.”

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses.

The next seconds are a blur as we tear off our clothes. His hands and mouth are everywhere. My stomach. Neck. My ankles, knees. Thighs. He shoves a foil packet between my teeth, his hand transferring to my throat and staying there as he slides down my body. One of my legs is yanked up, my knee shoved outward and held to the mattress. I spit out the condom foil, which slides off my chest.

He bites my inner thigh, then covers me with his mouth.

I gasp, arching. “Yes.”

He eats me out like it’s his calling. No hesitation, no tender exploration or reading my cues. He takes my pleasure like he owns it, and before I know it, I’m bucking against his mouth and crying out his name through another orgasm.

I’m still twitching with aftershocks as the hand on my throat releases, calloused fingertips floating over my chest and stomach and lifting goosebumps. He rises from between my legs like a fallen angel, all chaotic hair and straining muscles and inked skin. The lower half of his face glistens with my release, speckled green eyes catlike with smugness.

He licks his lips. “You still taste like sin.”

I’m useless, panting and drugged by back-to-back orgasms, and can only watch as he straddles my hips. His hard cock juts out over my stomach, and of course it’s as pretty as the rest of him. He strokes himself slowly, his grip loose over the long, thick shaft and a broad, flared head that shines wetly at the tip. Something else shines, too—silver balls that disappear and reappear as his hand passes over them.

My eyes widen.

“Apadravya piercing,” he says with a smirk. “Consider those orgasms appetizers to the main course. I’m about to blow your mind.”

---