Page 194 of Unmarked
Tears still sting the corners of my eyes, but they’re not from pain. It’s all from the pressure, from pleasure, theintensity. The burn of being held open in every way, claimed from every angle.
Lucian grits his teeth, his breath hitching. His rhythm falters for the first time.
Then his voice - low, wrecked, puresteel:
“You’re going toreallyfeel this.”
One final thrust, and then -
Stillness.
You ever feel a man come so hard he literally freezes in time?
Because I have. Right now.
It’s like a horror movie freeze-frame, but with more protein.
His grip tightens, holding me down, and I swallow. A lot. Like I’m trying to drink from a hose someone forgot to turn off.
The pressure. The heat. The amount.
Honestly, it’s almost impressive. Five stars. Would gag again.
I force my eyes to stay open, even as they blur. Lucian looks right back down at me like I’m a battlefield he’s just burned to nothing.
Finally -finally- he pulls back. His cock slides from my mouth with a wet sound that could honestly haunt a nun, his restraint snapping back into place around him like steel doors slamming shut.
I gasp. Lips red. Jaw trembling. Chin damp.
And I am still filled with Ash, still leaking around a knot like a broken bottle of champagne.
Lucian looks at me like he’s branded me. Like I’m his property.
But I feel something else, too.
The bond, threaded through me like a warning.
It’s faint. New. Fractured in places where his pride tried to resist. But it’s there, stitched into my blood now, whispering the truth even while his mouth stays shut.
He doesn’t want to leave - he wants tostay.
He wants to lay claim to everything - tome- not just with his cock in my mouth or his hand around my jaw, but with his presence. His silence. His shadow cast long across the room.
But then his gaze flicks sideways to Ash, and I feel it twist inside him.
The resistance. The recoil. The burn of pride too sharp to swallow.
Lucian Vale doesn’t share. Not easily, anyway. And even now, I feel the war inside him - the possessiveness, the frustration.
The weight of everything he wants and the boundary he refuses to cross.
His hand lifts - the one that had gripped my jaw like a claim - and hovers for a breathless second. His thumb brushes my lip on the way out, then he straightens. Adjusts his cuff with slow, practiced ease, and steps back.
“Now you’re marked,” he says. “Everywhere.”
And then turns on his thousand-dollar dress shoe heel and walks out.
The door hisses shut behind him like a sigh of surrender -
