Page 29 of Wicked Prince

Desired.

Those are the things I see reflected back at me in his eyes, and as he moves inside me, my body picks up the same rhythm. We're perfectly in sync, and as the dull ache gives way to sharp pleasure, I lose any trace of hesitation I might have had left.

When his thrusts pick up speed, I realize I'm arching into him just as eagerly. My nails dig into his shoulders, scraping along his muscular back, leaving tic-tac-toe patterns on his bronzed skin.

He nips my throat again, making me shiver. Each touch feels calculated and organic at once, and even though I know I'm not his first or last, with the way he gazes down at me when our eyes meet in the tender moments interrupting bursts of passion and fire, it's so easy to forget.

And in that moment, I realize that's what makes Lorenzo even more dangerous than I ever could have imagined.

Not because of his name, or his reputation, or even his actions—but because he makes me feel things I never have before.

Things I never even thought I was capable of.

Skin-on-skin, heart-to-heart, he's somehow torn down all my defenses, and I let him in willingly.

Eagerly.

Desperately.

My breath comes in ragged puffs as he angles hard into my spot, which he found with no effort, of course. I guess pushing my buttons just comes naturally to him, so why wouldn't that follow?

"Fuck," I gasp, my fingers laced behind his neck, our foreheads pressed close.

The sheen of sweat over his skin glistens, making his perfect body seem even more unreal in the subtle lighting of his bedroom. My fingers ball up in his silk sheets and my spine arches as he drives ever deeper within my core. His body is poised like a hunter's bow, tense and powerful over mine, and even though he's panting and his eyes are glazed with lust, he's still in perfect control.

I, on the other hand, feel like a ball of unraveling twine.

It’s only a matter of time—a brush of skin, a whispered lie against my bare throat—before I come undone.

"Amelia," he breathes, my name a silken sin on his lips.

It's such a simple, petty thing, but the sound of it makes me feel all warm inside, a sickly sweet feeling that spreads throughout me like wildfire.

The pressure of my impending orgasm builds, threatening to be even more overwhelming than the first, and as much as I don't want this to be over, I still grind against him headlong into climax.

A cry of ecstasy tears from my throat and my vision turns to static as he drives deeper into my spot. He doesn't let up, either. He just keeps thrusting harder, intent on wringing every last drop of pleasure from me, body and soul.

Like some kind of fucked-up incubus, his eyes aglow with lust and dominance, he exerts more control over my physical response than anyone should be capable of. He seems to feed off giving me pleasure, and when he captures my lips one last time, I can feel the crooked smile on his lips.

My body clenches down hard as another shudder of bliss racks me from head to toe, and a low growl of approval emanates from his chest as he clutches me tighter.

His seed fills me, hot and torrential, drawing out an orgasm that already feels so intense I'm on the verge of tears.

Another cry escapes me. His name, just like the son of a bitch promised so smugly.

And I can't even bring myself to care.

It feels too good, too perfect, to hold anything back. And right now, as the aftershocks of pleasure leave me spent and breathless, I have no regrets.

I'm sure they'll set in later. Maybe come morning, once the sun has risen and is shining brightly on all my mistakes, but not now.

Now, I just want to bask in this moment, improbable and foolish as it is.

Lorenzo collapses on top of me, and I relish the weight of his strong, muscular form against mine. I've never felt so soft or vulnerable as I do beneath him, and of all the things it should make me feel, safe and treasured aren't among them.

And yet...

He pulls out carefully, rolling onto his side next to me. His gaze travels down over what he just claimed so thoroughly, like a musician studying the instrument he knows as intimately as his own hands, and the look in his eyes damn near pushes me over the edge.

---