Page 69 of The King's Pawn
His mouth never truly leaves mine. It breaks away only long enough for him to drag in a rough breath and curse quietly under it, to murmur my name once like an accusation he can’t take back before crashing back into me again. The sound of it—Alina—is torn from his throat, raw and hoarse, and it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
My fingers fist in his shirt first, knuckles brushing the hard lines of his chest. Then they’re in his hair, tugging without meaning to, before sliding back to his shoulders as if I’m trying to anchor myself to something solid.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what comes next. I only know that everything else like the questions, the anger, the grief that feels like it’s been hollowing me out from the inside blurs beneath the intensity of him.
He braces one hand on the bed beside my head, caging me in while the other traces my jaw, my throat, the delicate line beneath my ear. The touch is reverent and urgent all at once as if he’s trying to memorize me just in case this is the last time he’s allowed to. His thumb brushes my pulse and pauses there, feeling it race under his touch.
“Alina,” he says again, softer this time. It sounds like a confession.
This is wrong.
I know it with every rational part of me. I know it in the quiet corners of my mind that are still screaming warnings I don’t want to hear. This is the man who took my freedom. The man who signed the end of my mother’s life. The man who holds my future like something he can rearrange at will.
And yet my body betrays me completely, arching into his touch like it never got the message.
I feel the battle inside him in the way his hands move. His thumb comes to rest at the edge of my lower lip when he finally drags his mouth away from mine. His breath is ragged now, uneven, warm against my skin. He stays close enough that I can still feel him, still feel the pull between us humming like a live wire.
In that pause, suspended between want and consequence, I realize how dangerous this truly is. Not because of what he might do, but because of how badly a part of me wants him to stop thinking and just feel.
“Tell me to go,” he whispers.
The words aren’t a dare. They are an offering, an escape route he’s placing in my hands even though every instinct in him is screaming not to.
I don’t say it.
His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, storm-gray collapsing into black. There’s no calculation there, no cold strategy, just something raw and exposed, a fissure in the armor he wears so easily everywhere else. A man behind the monster.
“I want you,” I whisper back.
His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his mouth is on mine again.
The kiss turns hungry, devouring, as if my words have snapped the last thread of his restraint. His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming, and I meet him with the same desperation while my hands slide under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin and the taut muscle shifting beneath.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me straight to my core. His hand leaves the bed to grip my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I feel him hard against my thigh, the evidence of how much he wants this too. It sends a jolt of heat through me, pooling low in my belly.
His fingers work at the hem of my shirt, pulling the fabric up until cool air kisses my skin. He tosses it and then his mouth is there trailing fire down my neck and collarbone, lingering at the swell of my breast as he pushes the cup of my bra aside. When his lips close over my nipple, I gasp, my back arching right off the bed.
How can something this destructive feel like salvation?
I tug at his shirt, frantic now, needing to feel more of him. He pulls back just long enough to rip the rest of the buttons apart, sending them flying like confetti around us, and then he’s back. His chest presses against mine as he kisses me again. His hand slides down my body, over my stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants until his fingers find me already slick and aching.
The first touch is electric. I cry out into his mouth as he strokes me slowly. His thumb circles that sensitive bud, making my hips buck against his hand as I chase the building pressure.
“Sasha,” I breathe, my voice breaking on his name. It’s not a plea to stop like it should be. It’s a plea for more.
He growls something incoherent against my skin, the sound raw and animalistic, vibrating right through me as his hands turn impatient. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my pants and yanks them down hard enough to move me across the mattress. They’re discarded in a careless heap on the floor along with my bra and whatever else I had on.
He pulls back just enough to shove his own off, and then he settles between my thighs. My gaze drops helplessly as I catch sight of his cock. It bobs, heavy and flushed as he moves, thick veins tracing up the length of it, the head already glistening with precum. My mouth waters at the sight, a traitorous ache blooming between my thighs.
He’s beautiful like this—undone and dangerous and mine for this stolen moment. I hate how much I want to taste him, how much I want him to ruin me.
He doesn’t give me time to dwell on it before strong hands are gripping my hips and dragging me toward the center of the bed like I weigh nothing. The sheets bunch beneath me as he yanks me upright, palms sliding under my ass to lift me until I’m barely on the mattress. My thighs are splayed wide over his shoulders, my core exposed and aching right at his mouth.
“Sasha—” I gasp.
The first drag of his tongue is slow from my clit down to my core, lapping up every drop of slick like he’s starving for it. My entire body jolts, my hips jerking involuntarily as pleasure rockets through my core, sharp and blinding. He groans against me, the vibration making me cry out, and then he’s devouring me. His tongue plunges inside, curling, retreating only to circle my clit with ruthless precision.
My hands fist in the sheets as my thighs tremble around his shoulders. He sucks my clit, teeth grazing over the bud just enough to make me see stars. Two fingers slide into me without warning, curling to stroke that spot inside that makes my back bow off the bed.
