Page 10 of Once Upon a Dream
The shock of each and every thrust makes it hard to speak. Everything below my navel is a single, searing ache, made hotter and achier by the near-angry way he stabs into me. Still, the truth tumbles out of my mouth. “I was going to pretend it was you,” I admit, my head dropping to his shoulder. “I wanted it to be you, but my pride...”
“I know all about your pride, little witch,” he says, surging up into me and then giving my clit slow, hard grinds. I moan into his tuxedo. “But your pride is one of the things I treasure most about you. I’d never want you to give it up. Just let me inside it with you sometimes.”
“Liar,” I mumble as the pressure behind my clit becomes unbearably wonderful. “I know Dominants. I know you. You want to play with my pride too, not just treasure it.”
I feel him smile against my hair. His stubble scratches the shell of my ear as he agrees, “Yes, my witch. That too.”
And then—incredibly—I’m smiling back. I forgot how good this feels, the smoldering wickedness of him, being drunk on him. How free and playful it was, how exhilarating, how alive it made me. I mean, I am always alive, of course, and dominating can be just as thrilling, just as sweet, but only with him have I also felt this. This...euphoria threaded through with a delicious kind of shame, a fun kind of fear.
And before, when we were married, having both feelings inside me felt like a lie, like I was being disingenuous somehow. But maybe…
I can have both. I can choose.
“Then play with it,” I tell him, sinking my hands into his dark hair. “I want what I came for.”
“And what did you come for, ex-wife?”
I turn my head to study the strong-featured face I’ve missed so much. The blade-carved jaw, the proud nose. The bold eyebrows over his drink-me eyes.
“To remember what it felt like to be yours.”
He sounds more curious than upset when he asks, “Even if you had to use someone else to do it?”
“Well. You can punish me for it, if you’d like,” I say, and then he laughs.
“You’re smiling again, Morgan le Fay. Someone might think you’re happy, and then what will become of your fearsome reputation?”
I move my fingers down to trace the line of his mask. “Maybe I’ll have to take fearsomeness lessons from you.”
“In that case.”
His hands find my ass, and suddenly I’m hauled up against him, my legs around his waist, and my core still impaled with his rigid length. His hands are over the fairy dress, which means whatever’s in the fabric that’s been irritating my skin is now back to tormenting me.
I give a low cry—muffled by his sudden kiss—as the pain on my bottom joins the carnal bliss currently knitting itself into a frantic orgasm. God, I forgot this too, the way pain and pleasure work a spell together, the way they hex each other into twisting, thorny rapture. It’s like being stabbed all over with paradise itself, like being tickled and caressed with agony. A contradiction I’ve only ever found with Lorne.
As if he knows what his hands are doing to my poor, abused backside, he grips me even harder, he squeezes me, plumps me with his fingers, and I sink my teeth into his shoulder to keep quiet...which is nearly impossible with the rough, unforgiving way he’s riding me right now. He’s fucking me like he paid for me, and every second of it, every goddamn bit of it, is too good; it’s what I’ve needed, what I’ve craved. And it’s too much like falling back in love—
With an abrupt shudder, I come apart—a mess of fairy wings and urgent, gasping squirms. I try to fuck myself against him, I pull his hair, I bite his shoulder again and again, but he is relentless, he is all fury and burn and the triumph of my orgasm has only stoked the burn higher.
He fucks me through my climax, and then the minute I’ve collapsed shivering in his arms, he sets me down and spins me around.
“Hands on the wall,” he grates, and I’m too Lorne-drunk to argue, too horny to care that this is definitely less ambiguous to anyone watching us through the gauzy fabric of the alcove.
He pushes my dress up and over my ass and hisses in pleasure at what he sees.
“Beautiful,” he says, fitting his cock to my opening once again. “Fucking beautiful.”
And with a low grunt I feel everywhere in my body, he wedges himself back inside. One hand curls around my hip while the other reverently strokes my bottom. “My Morgan,” he sighs, fucking into me harder. “My witch.”
It takes nothing for me to come again like this. My hands against the wall, the gentle sear of his fingers over the welts from my dress. His massive erection stroking me from the inside out.
It doesn’t matter what this means, it doesn’t matter that I’m terrified to call myself a switch, it doesn’t matter that I’ve pushed this man away over and over again because he’s the only person since Maxen Colchester to make me vulnerable.
All that matters is how it feels, and how it feels is fucking perfect.
I climax again, barely able to stand, shuddering with pleasure as Lorne bands an arm around my waist to keep me upright. He keeps moving between my thighs, holding me up to fuck me, until—with an abrupt bre
ath torn from his throat—he rams into me a final time and I feel his erection swell.
