Page 33 of Scorched
I come.
Standing up. His hand on my throat, his hand on my breast, the fire magic in the brand burning through me from the inside. No cock, no knot, no ridges. Just his voice and the words hitting the place my grandmother's training left bare—the empty space where praise was supposed to go and never did.
I come so hard my knees buckle.
He catches me, one arm around my waist, holding me against his chest. The orgasm shakes through me in long, wrecked waves and I'm making sounds I'll have to live with later. My face is pressed to his bare skin. I can feel his heartbeat. I can feel his cock hardening against my stomach through the thin fabric.
"That's one," he says against my hair. "You made me wait twenty minutes. I think you owe me more than one."
I hate him. I hate that he can do this to me with his voice and his hands and the specific, surgical way he praises the one thing about me no one has ever praised. I hate that my body is his instrument and he plays it better than I play iron.
"Again," he says.
I shake my head. My face against his chest. My hands gripping his arms.
"Again."
His hand slides down from my breast, down my stomach, under the hem of his shirt. His other hand stays on my throat—thumb on the brand, fire magic pulsing through it in a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. His fingers slide between my thighs. I'm soaked. Swollen. He drags two fingers through my folds—slow, deliberate, parting them, spreading the slick. The fire magic in his fingertips radiates into the swollen skin and I gasp.
He circles my clit. Slow. The pad of his finger tracing around it, not quite pressing, the fire magic flaring each time he passes over the hood. My hips jerk. He circles again. Tighter. The tipof his finger grazing directly over the nerve and the fire magic sparking through it.
"Do you know what you looked like when you held that blade up?" His mouth against my ear. His fingers dip lower—sliding through my folds, parting me open, two fingers pressing against my pussy. Not entering. Pressing. "You looked like a queen holding her scepter."
His fingers push inside me. Just the tips. The fire magic pulses into my cunt and I clench around him.
"You looked like you were standing in the right room for the first time in your life."
He withdraws and drags his wet fingers back up to my clit. Circles again—faster now, slicker, the fire magic running hotter. My hips grind against his hand. I can't stop them. He dips back down, slides through my folds, pushes inside me to the second knuckle, and curls his fingers.
"You looked like mine."
I come. On his fingers. On his words. His hand tight on my throat, the brand burning under his thumb, my thighs clamping around his wrist. The orgasm tears through me and my cunt clenches on his fingers in hard, rhythmic spasms.
He doesn't stop. His fingers slide out of me and find my clit again. Circling. Pressing. Sliding back down through the slick and dipping inside me again. His mouth stays at my ear.
"One more. Show me how grateful you are."
"I can't—I?—"
"You can. You will. Because your body knows who it belongs to even if your mouth won't say it."
His fingers press harder against my clit. The fire magic spikes through them. He slides two fingers back inside my cunt and fucks me with them—short, hard strokes, his palm grinding against my clit on every thrust. My cunt clenches. My back arches against his chest.
I come a third time. Silently. My mouth open, no sound, my body rigid against his, my thighs locked around his wrist, his fingers still buried inside me. He holds me through it—his hand on my throat, his fire magic pouring through the brand into my blood in a hot golden river.
When it's over my legs give out completely. He catches my full weight without effort.
He carriesme back to his chambers.
I don't fight him this time. I'm too wrung out. Three orgasms on his fingers and I can barely keep my head up. He carries me through the corridors of his court and the fire-thread blazes gold in our wake and the guards press themselves to the walls.
He lays me on the bed. On my side. Curled up in his shirt that's soaked through with sweat and slick. I should be planning my escape. I should be memorizing the guard rotations. I should be the assassin my grandmother made me.
He lies down behind me.
His body is so much bigger than mine. He dwarfs me—his chest against my back, his arm over my waist, his hips against my arse. I'm small against him. Contained. His body wraps around mine the way his hand wrapped around my throat and the fire magic radiating from his skin presses into me from shoulders to ankles.
His hand slides up under the shirt. Finds my breast. His fingers close around my nipple and pinch. Twist. The fire magic sparks through it and I gasp.
