Page 47 of Wounded


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He nods before dropping his head back onto my shoulder, a toe-curling groan sounding from him, and the last of my restraint vanishes. One arm still wrapped around him, and my other hand gripping me at the base, I sink inside, swallowed by his warmth. We share a groan, the tightness stealing the breath from my lungs. Rowan turns his face toward mine, meeting my lips with such ferocious need, that when his tongue slips into my mouth, I can taste his hunger.

His body shudders against mine as I start moving, rocking into him, hands moving to grip his hips. I start slow, deep, almost lazy in my strokes, enjoying the feel of him wrapped around him, of me owning him. My lips move down, pressing soft kisses along his pebbled skin. Teeth sinking into the meaty flesh between his shoulder and neck, my cock fills him to the brim at the same time.

Nipping at his earlobe, I say, “Do you have any idea how fucking hot you look right now?”

He whimpers, but says nothing.

“Tied to this fucking tree, unable to go anywhere, completely fucking naked with my cock inside you.” I slide a hand down his abdomen, fingers gliding through his dark, trimmed hair, until I’m able to wrap a palm around his stiff length. “Look at you, so fucking hard for me. Anybody could find us—findyougetting fucked like a slut in the middle of the forest. You love it, though, don’t you?”

Another pathetic whimper as he nods feverishly. His teeth have hold of his bottom lip; he’s biting down so hard, it blanches under the pressure. I continue to pump my cock into him; the sound of my pelvis slapping his ass is lewd and so fucking hot. Whenever I stroke his length, his hole flutters, walls constricting around me.

My heart jackhammers behind my ribcage, my breathing coming out heavy. He feels good… too fucking good. The type of good that has me seeing stars. That has me wanting to keep him like this forever. Never let him go.

The way his body fits with mine, molds to me, can’t be a coincidence.Rowan Davies’s body was fucking made to be destroyed by mine.

Sweat lines my neck, my brows, my chest, head dropping back onto my shoulders, jaw slack as I become desperate, reckless with my movements. Rowan keeps his back arched like a good boy, meeting me thrust for thrust as broken, breathy moans fall from his lips, my name sprinkled in there from time to time, chanting it like he’s at the altar, and I’m his god, my cock the answer to his prayers.

We fall into a mind-numbing rhythm. The blood running through my veins is molten and rapturous, skin electric and overheated. Every plunge into his body sends euphoria directly into my brain, breathing life into me, awakening something fierce.

“Cas… fuck, Cas… ungh…”

“Fuck, princess,” I groan, voice hoarse, nipping at his shoulder again. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

He nods. “P-please!” He swallows hard before adding, “I swear to fucking God, if you don’t let me come, I’m strangling you with this rope once you untie me!”

The chuckle that comes out of me is one hundred percent involuntary. His rage is unexpected but endearing. It’s cute he thinks I could pull back and stop now. I’m too far gone; he has to know that.

“Mmm… lucky for you, I’m fuckingdyingto see you lose it and come all over this tree.” My hand trails up his chest, wrapping around his throat, forcing his face to turn toward mine. We get lost in hungry lips, ravaging tongues, sharp teeth, and my body moving fluidly in and out of his.

Rowan squirms, arms fighting against the rope, and at the last possible moment, he rips his lips from mine, crying out as he blows, thick ropes decorating the tree, his voice raspy as he doesn’t hold back. He’sloud, and I fuckingloveit. He’s beautiful when he lets go. When he falls apart.

For a single moment, everything around us goes quiet. The birds chirping, the leaves swaying in the wind, the ocean waves in the far distance. Everything quiets, amplifying this moment for exactly what it is… monumental. The Earth stops moving while Rowan knocks my world off its axis with his feel, his sounds, his scent. Everything about him utterly rocks me, until I can’t hold back any longer.

His body relaxes against mine, molding to my form, as he turns his head, sealing his lips to mine again. I spill inside him when his tongue caresses mine. Everything—the pleasure, the moment,him—feels too strong. Pressure builds behind my eyes, my nose stinging, and my throat tight. I empty my seed into him, filling him, but I can’t help but feel like I’m giving him so much more than my orgasm.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Rowan

Fuck,my back hurts like a bitch.

Now, I remember why whenever I go camping, I bring an air mattress. This sleeping on the fucking ground is bullshit. This facility is probably a multi-million-dollar business, and they can’t even afford to give us air mattresses? Kind of fucked up, if you ask me.

I have no clue what time it is, but it smells like it’s early.

People always act like I’m nuts when I say that, but it’s true. The early morning scent is a legit thing. The dew on the grass and the trees, the sun touching the earth for the first time since the night before… there’s a smell. It disappears when the world has a chance to wake up, but it’s there.

Rolling from my side to my back, I wince at the ache around my lower half and the…wetfeeling coming from the same spot. His cum is still inside me, Caspian’s. It’s filthy, and it should probably gross me out more than it does. Sure, I’d love a nice, hot shower, some deodorant, and a fresh set of clothes, but also, knowing a part of him isinme, marking me, turns me on. My ever-present morning wood becomes a little stiffer at the thought, even more so when I glance to my left, finding Caspian already awake and watching me.

Heat pools low in my groin, my throat tightening and feeling dry as his steel-gray eyes drag down my body, landing on my very apparent erection. He smirks, the gesture sultry and cocky all at the same time before his gaze meets mine again. Tongue dipping out, he wets his lips before he turns onto his side, resting his head in his hand. The way his hair, messy from sleep, hangs in his face, his eyes bloodshot and tired, tattoos on full display where he’s lacking a shirt, he looks every bit the rock star I know he is.

It's sexy as fuck.

“G’morning,” he rasps. Presumably, from all his years living in the States, his accent is basically non-existent at this point, but I’ve noticed with certain words, or if he’s angry—or apparently tired—it tends to push through. Like right now.

“God, your voice is hot in the morning,” I grumble, rubbing my face into the flat pillow.

“Only in the morning?”