Page 48 of Her Soul to Own

She’s still on her knees with her thighs spread around the pillow and her body arched. Her back is to me, the curve of her spine gleaming with sweat. And that dress, God, that fucking dress is bunched just enough to leave nothing to the imagination. The vibrator is buried deep inside her, and she’s grinding against it like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

I step into the room before I can stop myself, letting the door click shut behind me.

“Lyra,” I rasp, my voice low and hoarse.

She freezes. Then she turns slowly, almost dreamlike, and our eyes lock.

The door clicks shut behind me, soft but final. I flick the lock into place without taking my eyes off her.

Lyra is sprawled on the bed like a vision I’ve conjured from every dark thought I’ve ever had about her. Her thighs are wide open, the vibrator still buried between them, her chest flushed and lips parted. Her hair fans out over the pillow like a halo, but the look in her eyes is anything but angelic.

She doesn’t move when she sees me. She just watches with something that looks a lot like challenge in her gaze.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I say, my voice guttural with restraint. Her body answers before she does, her hips twitching, and I see it, the way her inner muscles clench around the toy.

God help me.

Every inch of her calls to something deep and primal in me, something I’ve tried to keep buried. But not tonight.

I cross the room slowly, peeling off the boundaries we’ve danced around for far too long. My hand wraps around the back of her neck, firm but not cruel. Her breath hitches as I lean down close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me.

I tug gently at first. She doesn’t resist. So I tug harder.

She rises, her pupils blown wide, the edges of fear and anticipation blurring together so perfectly that it makes my pulse thunder. Her body slides up, nearly lifting off the toy, and I feel it, the moment she hands over her control.

“Are we doing this?” I ask, my tone low and edged with promise.

“Yes.” Her voice is soft but sure, vibrating against my fingers.

I hold her there, suspended in that delicious space between yes and more, then reach down to flick the toy back on. She gasps. “Raw is the safe word,” I say, my lips brushing her ear. “No matter when. No matter what I’m doing to this greedy little body. Do you understand?”

She nods, trembling.

“I need to hear it.”

“Raw is the safe word,” she whispers, and the vulnerability in her voice nearly undoes me.

I push her back down until she’s once again filled and grinding helplessly. “Swivel those sweet hips,” I command, watching every inch of her respond, and her need to obey and to be seen doing it. “Again. More.”

Gone is the teasing I usually wear like armor. She’s stripped it off me with one look, and what’s left is something darker, unforgiving, and consuming. I clamp down on her clit just as the toy pulses against her from inside, and her back arches like I’ve hit a nerve wired directly to her soul.

“Were you trying to punish me?” I ask.

She can’t answer. Her lips part, but no sound escapes. I wait. I want her ragged and breathless, teetering on the edge.

“Yes,” she finally chokes out. “I was mad you weren’t here.”

“I would’ve come for you.” My voice turns rougher. “You should’ve waited.”

Her body starts to tremble again, and I ease off just enough to make her feel everything flooding back. Her thighs quake, and her moan breaks. I let her rise just high enough to think she might fall over the edge.

Then I pull the toy from her body and toss it aside.

She cries out at the loss, and I answer it with a low growl, pushing her back onto the bed. In seconds, I’m above her, straddling, looming, and devouring her with my gaze.

I yank my shirt off, then pull her upright just enough to shove it under her neck. I unzip, and my pants hit the floor with a thud, releasing the ache that’s been throbbing for her since the second I saw her tonight.

She reaches for me, desperate. I catch her wrists and redirect them, pouring a slick trail of lube onto her chest.

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