Page 106 of Bonds of Pain
In the distance, I hear Poe’s voice continuing his clinical commentary on the fight, seemingly oblivious to what’s happening behind him. Or perhaps he’s deliberately ignoring it.
I don’t care. The blush has stripped away all my inhibitions, leaving only raw need. Logan could be fighting for his life below, and part of me—the part not drowning in pink-tinged pleasure—knows I should care more than I do right now.
If I’m about to die, might as well do it while feeling good.
Because right now, all I can focus on is the delicious pressure building where Ares’s hardness presses against me, and the savage satisfaction of turning this powerful Alpha into my plaything with nothing more than the movement of my hips.
I lift my skirt with one hand, the fabric bunching around my waist as the blush emboldens me beyond reason. My other hand fumbles with Ares’s pants, finding the button and zipper with clumsy determination. The pink haze in my mind transforms every movement into something dreamlike yet intensely vivid.
“Maya,” Ares whispers, his voice strained between warning and desire. “Are you sure?”
I don’t answer in words. The blush has stripped away any hesitation, leaving only raw need. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel him inside me, to lose myself in sensation rather than watch Logan possibly die below.
Ares doesn’t resist as I free him from his pants, his thickness springing into my hand. He’s already fully hard, throbbing against my palm. I position myself over him, my slick-soaked underwear the only barrier between us. With a quick movement, I push the thin fabric aside.
“Fuck,” he groans as I sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch.
The stretch is delicious, almost painful. I gasp as he fills me completely, my body adjusting to his size. His hands grip my hips, guiding my movements as I begin to ride him with slow, deliberate motions.
Through half-lidded eyes, I notice Poe has turned to watch us. His dark gaze flicks between my face and where Ares and I are joined, then back to the arena, as if he can’t decide which spectacle demands more attention.
“Come here,” I breathe, reaching toward him with an outstretched hand while continuing to move on Ares.
Poe shakes his head, his expression pained. “Not like this.”
The rejection stings even through the blush haze, but I’m too lost in pleasure to dwell on it. Ares fills me so completely, hitting places inside that make starbursts explode behind my eyes with each downward thrust.
“Logan’s got the upper hand,” Poe comments casually, his voice oddly detached as he turns back to watch the fight. “Viktor is tiring.”
Ares’s pace quickens beneath me, his powerful hips driving upward to meet my downward thrusts. I feel the telltale swelling at his base—his knot beginning to form. The thought of being tied to him, filled with his release while Logan fights for his life below, sends a forbidden thrill through me.
“He’s got Viktor in a headlock,” Poe continues, as if he’s not standing mere feet from where I’m riding his packmate. “It could be over soon.”
I feel Ares’s knot pressing against me, stretching me as it catches on my entrance with each thrust. His breathing grows ragged, his movements more desperate. I grind down harder, wanting to take all of him, to feel that final connection.
With a groan that sounds almost pained, Ares’s knot locks inside me, tying us together. The sensation triggers my own release, a wave of pleasure so intense that my vision whites out for a moment. My inner walls pulse around him, milking him as he floods me with his release.
“Logan won,” Poe announces dispassionately, just as my orgasm crests. “Viktor is dead.”
A rush of relief courses through me, mingling with the pleasure still rippling through my body. I tell myself it’s just the blush making me care about Logan’s victory, just the drug creating this sense of gratitude that he survived.
But deep down, beneath the haze of chemicals and pleasure, I know it’s more complicated than that. The bond, unwanted as it is, has tied me to him in ways I’m only beginning to understand.
As I collapse against Ares’s chest, his knot still pulsing inside me, I catch Poe’s gaze one more time. There’s no judgment there, only a deep, unreadable sadness that follows me even as I drift in the pink-tinged afterglow.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MAYA
The only thing worse than getting up before dawn is doing it with a blush hangover.
My head pounds like a war drum as I squint against the morning light filtering through the curtains. The royal car rolls smoothly over pristine roads, but every tiny bump feels like someone driving a nail into my skull. Memories from yesterday swim hazily through my mind—the arena, the pink powder dissolving in my lemonade, and what happened after with Ares while Logan fought below.
I press my fingertips to my temples, willing the throbbing to subside. My body feels hollowed out, like someone scooped my insides with a rusty spoon and left me empty.
“Drink,” Logan says, passing me a bottle of water. His voice is carefully measured, betraying nothing of what he might know about my activities during his fight. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Where exactly are we going?” I manage to ask, my voice scratchy.
