Page 93 of Wicked Prince

"I love the way you say my name," I purr, nuzzling her throat as I bury my hand in her hair.

Her only response is a soft whimper as she clenches down around my cock, her body trembling with every breath. I angle into her to push her over the edge, and the sensation of her body trembling beneath mine is orgasmic in its own right.

I force myself to hold back. I'm not satisfied with making her come one time. No, that isn't going to cut it. I don't just want her to breathily moan my name, I want her to scream it.

She's still convulsing from her first orgasm as I drive into her even harder, angling to hit her spot.

My reward is a cry of bliss that I muffle with my hand. I really don't feel like getting murdered by her father is the best way to end this evening prematurely.

The fact that she has lost control, though, is more than just an ego boost.

It's fucking hot.

"Good girl," I say in a husky voice. Her eyes flash at me, and the anger within them is definitely an aphrodisiac.

I love it when she glares at me. When she tells me to go to hell. I always deserve it, of course, and any way I can get under her skin is a victory.

Tonight, I want to be inside her more.

"You're such a dick," she mutters half-heartedly.

I just smirk. "You know you love it."

She rolls her eyes, but when I thrust into her again, sarcasm gives way to ecstasy.

"Fuck," she gasps softly, her spine arching.

The shift in angle is almost enough to push me over the edge, but I hold back, gripping her thick, wavy hair tighter to reveal her throat. I nip the sensitive flesh, running my tongue up along her jugular to feel her pulse pattering away beneath it.

"I miss this," I say, growing breathless myself. I don't even know what possesses me to say that. I'm not the kind of guy who gets sentimental or sappy during sex. Hell, I'm not the type of guy who feels anything at all aside from the physical.

I don't know what's gotten into me. I don't know why she's so different, but she is.

Hell, that's not even entirely true. She's different because she's Amelia—and all the indefinable, frustrating, and captivating things that come along with that.

She's a mystery, one I want to unravel more than any other.

Tonight, I just want to savor her. To make her feel things no one else ever has—and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure no one else ever does. To make sure she's mine, and only mine, forever.

The fact that she’s even with me right now is proof that it's not a lost cause. Proof that I shouldn't give up—not that that was ever an option to begin with. I'm addicted, and there's no way around it.

I don't want there to be one, either.

As I thrust into her, our movements synchronize, as perfectly in time with each other as our bodies fit together. If I feel it this strongly, I know she does, too. And I'm not going to give her any choice but to admit it, even if it’s only in pleasured moans and breathless cries.

I can tell she's drawing close again, and I'm not far behind. The friction between our bodies and the steady rhythm of her shallow breathing is all building toward a crescendo.

I gaze down at her, wanting to imprint her face in my memory like this. Ecstatic, overwhelmed with pleasure, so soft and beautiful yet so sensuous…

My attention span with women has never lasted long, but her… I could make her moan like this every night for the rest of my life without ever coming close to getting bored.

Fuck, that sounds appealing.

And, buried so deep inside her, I can't come up with a single damn reason it shouldn't happen.

She arches into me once more, gripping the sheets behind her head, and I kiss her to stifle the pleasured moans on her lips. I lace my fingers with hers, bucking into her one last time before we come together.

It feels amazing to be this in sync with another person. It never even occurred to me that sex could be like this.

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