Page 71 of Wings of Shadow
“I’m a virgin, Kaisner,” she pants, her breath warm against my jaw. “Not a saint.”
The words snap the last frayed thread of my restraint. A savage hunger surges through me, burning away any lingering hesitation. My fingers press into her hips as I drag her to the very edge of the table, positioning her exactly where I want her. Her body molds to mine, soft and yielding, yet defiant—made for me.
And I have every intention of making her mine.
“Are you sure about this?” I growl against her ear, my voice rough with restraint. “Once we start, there’s no going back.”
“Yes,” she gasps, breathless, her fingers fisting the baize beneath her. “I want you… more than… anything…”
She bites her bottom lip, and then, in a whisper that detonates inside me— “Fuck me senseless, Kaisner.”
Lightning ignites in my veins, raw and electric, surging straight to my core. Any last thread of patience snaps. I seize her mouth in a ravenous kiss, my tongue claiming hers as our bodies fuse together, heat against heat. My hardness strains against my boxers, aching to sink inside her, to brand her as mine. But I’m not in a hurry. Not yet.
This is her first time. Our first time.
And I’ll make damn sure she remembers every second.
I kiss a path down her frame—her breasts, the hollow between them, lower still—my lips mapping her skin with slow, deliberate reverence. She arches beneath me, a symphony of gasps and shivers, her body pleading for more. I savor her response, how she blooms under my touch, trembling on the precipice of pleasure she’s never known.
And I intend to ruin her for anyone else.
Sliding a hand down the arch of her spine, I slip her panties off, the lace whispering against her skin before falling away like a discarded secret. My mouth follows in its wake, trailing fire along her neck, across her collarbone, to her cleavage. Clarissa writhes beneath my touch, her soft moans threading through the air like a melody meant only for my ears.
I reach behind her and unhook her bra, the delicate scrap of lace slipping from her shoulders and joining the rest of her clothing in forgotten abandon. Her breasts spill free—perfect, aching for my attention. I take my time, teasing the taut peaks with slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue, savoring the way her breath catches, the way her fingers curl into the baize.
I pause, drinking her in.
She is a vision of temptation against the emerald green, her skin luminous in the dim light, every curve and hollow sculpted by the shadows.
Mine.
Lifting her legs over my shoulders, I spread her open and descend, claiming her with my mouth.
A sharp gasp leaves her lips, her fingers fisting the felt as my tongue explores every secret inch of her. She tastes like sin and surrender, like something I’ll never get enough of. I drag my tongue over that sweet bundle of nerves, and her body arches in offering, a strangled moan tearing from her throat.
“More,” she begs, a low cry. “I need more.”
I chuckle mischievously, my fingers tracing patterns on her skin. “I want to hear you beg. Say it—say you need me to ruin you,” I say, my voice firm but gentle.
The quiet whimper of her obedience, the breathless anticipation in her eyes—it carves through me like a blade made of fire and pleasure.
Her scent—arousal tinged with the faintest trace of her expensive perfume—floods my senses, fueling my hunger. I grip her thighs tighter, holding her still as I push her closer to the edge, my tongue flicking and stroking in a rhythm that has her breath coming in desperate, uneven gasps.
She writhes against me, her hips undulating, searching for more, chasing that final push into oblivion.
And I am determined to take her there.
I slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, stretching her, letting her feel every deliberate inch. She breathes sharply, her body arching into me, her hands desperately seeking a hold on the baize. I find that perfect spot within her, curling my fingers just so, and a choked cry spills from her lips, raw and unrestrained.
I smirk against her inner thigh, reveling in the way she unravels for me. My other hand roams freely, trailing fire across her skin—cupping the curve of her breast, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, teasing until she’s writhing, desperate for more.
My focus is singular, my hunger absolute. Her pleasure is mine to command.
She moans again, the sound low and breathless, and I know she’s close. Her thighs quiver beneath my grip, her body tightening around my fingers, her breath coming in ragged little gasps.
I increase the pace, my tongue flicking over that swollen, sensitive nub with relentless precision, driving her toward the edge with every stroke, every calculated movement.
And then, she shatters.
