Page 49 of Bound By Crimson
The wave rolled through her, again and again, until she collapsed—limp and trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks from the sheer force of it.
He rose.
Towering. Wordless.
And then, with all the power of a man who knew she was his, he lifted her into his arms.
She melted against him, boneless, wrecked.
He carried her to the bed of satin and shadow, roses brushing her skin like kisses.
And laid her down like something sacred—
and already claimed.
His breath ghosted over her skin as he closed the space between them, his hand curling around her waist like she belonged to him. The air thickened with something electric—dark, charged, unspoken.
She couldn’t speak. Her heart thudded against her ribs, her skin hypersensitive to the smallest brush of his fingers. He tilted her chin with maddening care, eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in existence.
“Are you ready?” he whispered, his voice low, reverent, dangerous.
A tremor rolled through her. She wasn’t ready. Not in the way innocence demanded. But her body—her soul—ached for him. She swallowed, lips parting. “Yes.”
His mouth met hers in a kiss that shattered everything quiet inside her. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. Devouring. His hands moved with restraint that was already beginning to fray—trailing the sides of her thighs.
The moment he pressed his body against hers, she knew there would be no going back. She gasped at the feel of him—hard, hot, restrained by the thinnest thread of control.
He kissed her throat, her collarbone, her chest—until she arched into him, each inch of her screaming for more.
When his fingers traced the curve of her thigh and found the strap that held her stockings, her breath hitched. He hooked his finger through it, pulled gently—and smiled when her legs tensed in response.
He explored her slowly, his hands and mouth undoing her one nerve at a time. She moaned, legs trembling, as he worshipped her with every stroke, every kiss, every barely-there touch that left her undone.
And when he finally claimed her—slow, full, consuming—it felt like falling. Like flying. Like every tether to the world had snapped, except for the one binding her to him.
Then—he pressed into her.
Slow. Measured. Deep.
Her breath caught, her eyes flying open. Her hands gripped the sheets, her spine arching as a gasp tore from her throat. He paused just long enough to let her adjust—his forehead resting against hers, his breath ragged.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured.
He moved inside her like he already knew every part of her soul.
She wrapped her legs around him, met his rhythm with breathless urgency, her body trembling as pleasure built like fire at her core. It filled her, consumed her—and still she ached for more.
She gasped his name. It escaped before she could stop it.
He answered with a groan that vibrated against her neck, his mouth trailing lower, teeth grazing sensitive skin. She clung to him, every part of her alive, burning, overwhelmed.
The climax tore through her like a storm. Her hands flew to his shoulders, clutching, grounding, as she shattered beneath him. He followed with a low groan—his control finally breaking—as he buried himself in her one last time.
Silence.
Only the sound of their breathing, tangled and unsteady.
She blinked, dazed, flushed, stunned.
