Page 39 of Broken Rejected Mate

His tongue is against mine, seeking, searching, pushing deeper. A nip to my bottom lip, a new slant of his lips, his mouth and hands working together to leave my body nothing but a raw bundle of nerves.

And just when I’m breathless, afraid I might actually die from suffocation, he pulls back, trailing his lips down my neck and to my jawline, sucking, biting, teasing at my pulse point.

He stops, breathing deeply, holding it for a moment, and I realize he’s taking in the scent of me. The thought of that is intoxicating—that he’s scenting me, and that he likes it.

Pressed against the wall like this, I can already feel him hard against me. He wedges one leg between mine, pressing into that sensitive core, and I sob against him at the pressure, feeling him hard at my hip and wanting him instead at my center.

Embarrassingly, the friction of his leg against me alone is almost enough to make me come undone. I’m pulsing, throbbing with need in a way I never have before. He seems to realize it, because his grip tightens on me, his thigh pressing in closer, the friction lighting up black dots in my vision.

“Are you going to come for me right now?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about Emin through the years. If, on a lonely night, I didn’t occasionally picture him, think of the way he used to touch me. In my fantasies, we were always in bed, him above me, his bite sharp on the back of my neck.

In none of my fantasies did I come against the wall, on his leg.

“Not like this,” I try, but Emin is shaking his head, his mouth pressed to the side of my neck, his breathing ragged.

“Veva,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you come as many times as you want tonight, so you’re going to do it right here, right now. Come on baby, I want—”

Just hearing him promise that sends me flying apart, my arms wrapping around his neck, my hips moving feverishly against him, seeking more friction. I’m soaked through my underwear and shorts, likely even through his pants now, the slick of my heat just coming and coming.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, this orgasm.

And yet, the moment it’s done, I know that I can come again. I’m still shaking, stillsodamn sensitive. It’s as though my body truly has stored up ten years of sexual frustration, ten years of missing heats, ten years of true loneliness.

Another man has never touched my body.

I’d tell myself it’s because I was too busy, or because I didn’t trust the men at camp, but that’s a lie—there were several very fine men there. Men who wanted me, lusted after me, and would have been happy with a single night out in the brush.

Willow tried to encourage me more than once.

But how could I tell her that my body only wanted the touch of a single man? Only the scrape ofhisknuckles over my skin. Only the press of him into my body—anything else would either be downright disgusting or simply frustrating, a tease of something I knew would never be coming.

Other than safety, that’s the biggest reason I took so many measures to suppress my heat. Because, without Emin there, I might actually lose my mind from the lack of satisfaction, the wanting and wanting without any resolution in sight.

My body would only accept one form of pleasure, from one specific source.

The thought of that—the thought of what I know I’m getting tonight—makes my entire body shudder in anticipation,the desperate aching of it making goosebumps break over out over my skin.

I shiver, then Emin is picking me up, carrying me like I’m nothing, and I know where we’re going.

He pushes open the door to his bedroom and deposits me gently on the bed, moving methodically, like he’s an actor only following the very obviously laid script for this moment.

Emin pulls my hips to the edge of the bed, gets on his knees before me.

“Emin,” I say when he peels my shorts off and sucks in a sharp, quick breath, his dark eyes locked on the part of me that’s drowning in my heat. Embarrassment threatens to surface through the lust. “Emin—” I try again, when he grabs the insides of my thighs, forcing my legs open.

And then his name is pulled from my mouth as he buries his face between my legs. The gasps and sounds that come from me are mortifying, desperate and wide-open, but Emin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he carries on, lapping at me like it’s the only thing he’s been thinking about for the last ten years.

“Veva,” he groans against my clit, the vibration settling into my bones. “You have no idea how long I have waited to taste you like that.”

“The heat,” I try, gasping for air, hovering just above the precipice of my next orgasm. My legs are shaking—my entire fucking body is shaking. “The slick, I’m sorry—”

Emin draws back, something almost sadistic on his face. Then, he eases a knuckle inside me, and I nearly black out at the endless rush of endorphins. Like I’ve just gone down the other side of the roller coaster.

“Don’t youdarefucking apologize to me,” he growls, dragging his tongue along the length of me, hot and wet and practically obscene. “You taste…you taste like you belong to me, Veva.”

Maybe he realizes it, maybe he doesn’t, but when he saysbelong, he thrusts his finger fully inside me, and I cry out, clenching around him as my second orgasms shudders through my body, ecstasy lighting up from my deepest organs and all the way out to the tips of my fingers.

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