Page 146 of Bitten & Burned
He lay back without hesitation, the warmth of his body searing through me even before we touched again. His shirt fell open, revealing his bare chest like an offering, like a canvas—and I was already painting him with my hands: over the ridges of his ribs, the slope of his chest, the trail of hair leading below his navel.
I straddled his hips and settled there, slowly, deliberately, grinding against him as his eyes fluttered closed and his throat worked through a groan.
“Gods, Rowena…”
I reached down to undo his trousers, and he shifted, helped push them down to his knees, where he kicked them off.
His hands came to my thighs, sliding up to my hips and gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling me down against him. I rocked again. He bucked up in response, the tension between us igniting like kindling to flame.
“Say it,” I whispered. “Saymy name again.”
“Rowena,” he breathed, then again, harsher this time. “Rowena. You have no idea what you do to me.”
I leaned forward, hair falling around us like a curtain, and kissed him—deep and possessive, tongue and teeth. He matched me, kiss for kiss, moan for moan, his cock pressed hot and insistent between us.
“Now,” I whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to reach between us. “I want you now.”
He didn’t argue. Just helped me line him up, and, when I sank onto him, it was everything.
Hewas everything.
I moved slowly at first, savoring it. The fullness. The stretch. The way his head fell back and he cursed again, clutching my hips like he couldn’t believe I was real.
And then I picked up the pace.
Took what I wanted.
What I needed.
Each roll of my hips drove us both closer to oblivion. Each gasp, each breathless cry, tore something loose in me. The pain, the fear, the grief—they didn’t vanish. The sigil still burned on my skin. But, for a few sacred minutes, it paused.
Anton’s hands roamed my body like he was memorizing every inch, and when I began to fall apart, his voice followed me down.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my wicked darling. Let go. I’ve got you.”
My pace shifted—slow, then fast, then slow again—cruel in the way I withheld rhythm. The way I teased us both to the edge and then pulled us back. I wanted to see him like this. Keep him like this. Strung out and trembling beneath me.
Anton was gasping now, hands splayed on my waist like he didn’t trust himself to hold on. His brows furrowed in concentration, in awe, in desperation.
“Rowena—gods?—”
“I know,” I whispered, leaning down to nip at his bottom lip. “I feel it too.”
His hands slid up, up, worshipful, reverent. He traced the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts, the place where I met him again and again.
“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “So perfect. So—gods, Rowena,—you were made to do this. Made to ride me like this.”
The words made my spine tingle. I moaned, arched, and dragged my nails down his chest. He shuddered.
I clenched around him on purpose, slowly, deliberately, and his mouth fell open in a silent groan.
“Do you like that?” I asked, barely more than a breath.
He nodded, eyes glazed, teeth catching on a gasp. “You’re going to ruin me.”
I rocked harder, angling my hips just right. “That’s the plan.”
His hands flew to my hips again, holding on as I took him deeper, sharper. Our bodies slick with sweat, the sounds of us wet and obscene and gorgeous.
