Page 94 of The Beast King's Bride

I want to see that, I want him to give in, to trust me entirely, to let me draw the pain and sorrow out of him, to fill him with pleasure.

But he doesn’t. His hips stop their rocking and slowly, ever so slowly he pulls back, putting a hand over mine, on his cock. “Ash.”

I release him from my mouth, not sure where I went wrong. “What is it? Wasn’t it good for you?”

I really had thought it was, that he was close to his release. He unwraps my hand from around his arousal and pulls me to my feet.

“It was damn perfect. I…” He shakes his head, looks down at himself, at that flushed, rock-hard cock.

“Then why did you stop me?” I take a step back, not sure what to think. “I wanted to give you pleasure.”

“You were. You are.” His growl comes from deep inside his chest. Standing there, bared and resplendent in his scarred skin, he looks like one of the Gods below—and weren’t they perhaps fashioned on the Fae, living in their underground world, magical and incomprehensible to us?

I shake my head.

He snarls and grabs my hand, preventing me from retreating further. “You do not understand,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to control myself. I’m not a beast.”

“That’s what worries you? I love the beast in you,” I whisper.

He stares into my eyes, his dark scowl slowly easing, his gaze brightening. “By all the Gods, you mean it.”

“I love you,” I tell him simply.

He’s on me in the same instant, fast like the wind, grabbing my gown and shredding it—another gown gone and I’d laugh if not for the intensity in those dark blue eyes—before grabbing my hips and lifting me as if I weigh nothing. He braces my back against the door—I don’t want to know what the guards are making of this—and spreads my legs, folding them around his hips.

Then he reaches between them and pushes a finger inside me, stroking me, stealing my voice and my breath. His teeth flash in a wicked grin as he adds a second finger, opening me up, preparing me for him.

All I can do is hold on to his broad shoulders and ride his fingers, panting, moaning, begging him to make me come. He jams his fingers inside me deeper, strokes me harder, until I cry out, shaking, clenching around them again and again.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, “but you’re glorious when you find your release.”

I cling to him, panting, as he withdraws his fingers and again licks them clean. He seems to like my taste because his eyes flutter close and a moan rumbles up his chest as he does so.

It makes me feel so hot inside when he does that, when he seems so turned on.

“Talen,” I whisper, not even knowing what I want to say—but he draws his fingers out of his mouth and his wicked grin returns, a little crooked, a little lazy.

He gazes down at me, raking his eyes over my face, my breasts, between my legs—then he grabs his hard, trembling cock and guides it into me.

I gasp as the flared head spreads me and fills me up so completely, slowly, inexorably pushing into me. Even though he prepared me, even though I’m slick with my release, fitting him inside me takes some work. His broad chest rises and falls with quick breaths as he struggles to rein himself in, thrusting with slow rolls of his hips, deeper and deeper, dark hair in his eyes, strands sticking to his temples, those might horns so strange and beautiful at once.

With a grunt, he pushes another inch into me, and then he’s fully seated, his chest flush with mine, his hand rising to tangle in my hair, his cock throbbing inside me. Such a startling sensation, feeling him so intimately, holding him inside of me.

Then he starts to move and pleasure slams into me, making me cry out. So good. The angle, so different, the sensations sharper, stronger. Heightened. My back presses into the wood as he rocks in and out of me, taking his time, slow, deep thrusts that bring me right to the brink and leave me teetering there.

The pressure is becoming painful, the need to come driving me insane, and when I look up at that handsome face that’s starting to become so dear, I lose it.

I lose my grip on that crumbling edge and I break apart, moaning his name, black stars erupting behind my eyelids, the world shifting, tilting.

“Ash,” he whispers, holding me close to him, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder where a vein beats frantically. “My Ash.”

I whimper a little, content to be held like this, my muscles loose, my head too light.

“Are you all right?” he asks and I nod, huffing out a laugh.

That seems to be confirmation enough for him. “Hold on,” he says.

Pulling me off the door, he carries me to his bed and lays me down, still buried deep inside of me. He offers me a feral grin, braced over me on those muscular arms of his, his braid hanging over one shoulder to curl against my breasts.

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