Page 48 of Sold to the Nalgar
This was not supposed to feel good.
And yet it did.
More than anything ever had.
Tears sprang to her eyes, not from pain, but from helplessness. From being known in a way no one ever had. From being stripped of control by pleasure, not violence.
She writhed, torn between fury and surrender, and his grip tightened slightly, reminding her she wasn’t going anywhere.
Cecilia turned her face into the pillow, muffling the broken sound in her throat.
Because he was destroying her.
And he was doing it with his mouth.
And she hated him for it.
Almost as much as she hated the part of her that wanted more.
Her body shattered. A blinding flood of sensation tore a cry from her throat—a cry she tried to swallow but couldn’t.
It crashed through her, seizing her in full-body spasms. Her back arched, limbs trembling, his grip unyielding. She’d never experienced anything like this.
When the final waves ebbed, she collapsed, sweat-slick and shaking, her mind a swirl of rage and disbelief.
Because he was still there.
Still holding her.
Zarokh’s face hovered above hers, unreadable—until a slow smile curved his mouth. Not cruel or mocking. Just viscerally satisfied.
As if he had won.
His grip loosened but didn’t release. He stared, red eyes glowing like embers, taking in every inch of her.
She met his gaze unflinchingly, pure hatred in her eyes.
Her voice was low and raw.
“I fucking hate you.”
The translator echoed the words perfectly.
Zarokh’s expression didn’t shift at first. Then his pupils narrowed, his body tensing—not in anger, but in something darker. Her fury seemed to deepen his fascination.
Then, without a word, he leaned in.
She stiffened—until she felt it.
His lips at her neck.
Not kissing, but pressing. Testing
She gasped.
“No—”
Too late.
