Page 30 of Wicked Bonds
He moves his hand lower, fingers splaying across the top of my ass, and with every inch of movement, the magic in me amps up another level. My hips grind against his, involuntarily, and I realize I’m clinging to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
“There it is,” he says, and this time his voice is not smooth at all. It’s rough, urgent.
The energy floods outward, every nerve ending on fire. He draws it in, and the sensation is obscene, like an orgasm that doesn’t end, just crests and crests, building past anything I thought I could feel. My legs shake. My whole body trembles. I try to swallow a moan but it comes out anyway, and that’s when he finally kisses me.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s hard, and it’s insistent. There’s no tenderness, only lust, only need. He devours my mouth, pulls at my lower lip, his tongue hot and probing.
When I come, it’s violent and shattering. My back arches, my head tips back, and I cry out as my nails rake down his arms.
He holds me there, keeps me in place, as the aftershocks roll through. I’m limp and shaking, utterly spent.
He doesn’t let go right away. He keeps his hand at my back, thumb rubbing circles until my breathing slows.
Finally, he pulls away, and I almost collapse without his arms around me.
Soren looks at me, lips parted, eyes still black, and for a second he looks as stunned as I feel.
“That,” he says, voice hoarse, “is how you break through a shield. And now that you know it, you can set up a defense to counter it.”
I can’t speak. I can barely move. He doesn’t smirk like he usually does. It’s like he’s as surprised as I am, like he didn’t mean for this to happen.
“Next time, ask for help.” His hand lingers at my waist for a long moment, then he straightens, tugging his shirt down. His eyes return to normal, but he looks unsettled.
He’s halfway to the door before he says, “You’re not like the others.” He hovers, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he wants to say something else. Instead, he just stares for a beat too long, then leaves, the door closing with a hush.
I slump in the chair and wonder if it’s possible to overdose on embarrassment.
For a long minute, I can’t do anything but breathe. I close my eyes and count to ten, then twenty, then thirty. My heart rate refuses to slow down.
It’s only when I open my eyes that I realize I’m not alone.
Drake sits on the radiator by the window, arms folded, one foot resting on the sill. His body is more solid than usual.
I flinch. “How long have you been there?”
He shrugs. “Long enough. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I flush, heat flooding my face, and glare at him. “Did you enjoy the show?”
For a second, he looks wounded. “That’s not why I came. But since you asked…”
Without thinking, I direct a blast of energy his way, as I let myself just feel, no thinking. I feel the tingling in my core, the bruising of my lips, the lust that my orgasm did nothing to relieve. I let myself feel it all.
Drake’s eyes widen as he realizes what I’ve done, then he disappears.
Poof gone.
Finally.
It’s about time my stupid magic did something right.
Sixteen
Lucien
I have spent the last week as the Coven’s glorified watchdog, trailing after Rose Smith like I have nothing better to do than document her every sigh, her every petulant eye roll, her every misstep, of which there have been many. Wickersly wants twice-daily reports, as if Rose might spontaneously combust and take the academy with her.
Perhaps she will. The thought is not entirely unpleasant.
