Page 162 of Labyrinthine
“Say it, Azhara. Let go. Give this to me.”
It’s not about power. It never is, not with him. He wants surrender, not submission. Trust, not obedience.
And I do trust him.
“Please, Mallen,” I breathe. “Please. I need you. I want?—”
“Just like that.”
His pace changes—faster, deeper, more intense. I cry out as the pleasure crests and crashes over me, breaking me open. Mallen watches every second, his mouth slightly parted, reverent.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as I collapse against the bed, limbs trembling.
He doesn’t move right away. Just trails his hand gently over my body, grounding me, letting me come back to myself.
When I open my eyes, he’s above me again, eyes burning. He strokes himself slowly, deliberately, and the want in his gaze reignites mine in an instant.
But then he pauses.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, but a tremor stirs in my core. Fragile, unfamiliar. Like the stillness before a storm breaks. I’m not the same as I was before, and maybe he’ll notice.
He sees it, hears my anxiety.
“I’ll stop. Just say it.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “I’m choosing this. I want you.”
He eases forward—his body taut, trembling—and then he’s inside me, in one smooth, careful thrust.
I gasp. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. I feel full, complete, as though I was missing a piece I hadn’t known I needed.
Mallen groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck as he starts to move. The rhythm he finds is deep and steady. Purposeful. Every motion saysI’m here. You’re mine. I’ve got you.
I match him, hips rising to meet his, the tension building between us with each breath, each thrust. His body presses against mine, and his hands map my skin like he’s afraid he’ll forget the shape of me.
“You feel like coming home,” he breathes, like it amazes him.
I arch against him, moaning as he hits just the right spot. Over and over, until I can’t think, can’t speak. Just feel.
“You were made for me,” he groans. “All of you.”
I break our kiss long enough to murmur, “And you for me.”
His rhythm falters and then deepens. He leans back, hands gripping my hips as he moves faster and harder, dragging me with him toward the edge. I hold on, nails digging into his shoulders, crying out as the pleasure coils tight in my belly.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp.
His eyes blaze. “Say it like you mean it.”
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him down to whisper against his ear, “I was always yours.”
He shudders, and I feel him hold back, waiting—always waiting for me. He won’t let go until I do.
And I do.
