He pushed himself into a sitting position, the bandages around his abdomen and shoulder blooming scarlet with the motion, but he didn’t seem to mind. He scowled, darkness twisting his beautiful features.
“I don’t?—”
His sentence came to a stuttering stop when she lunged toward him, her face mere inches away from his. He became deathly still; so unnatural, like a lethal, feral beast ready to sink its teeth into its prey. For a moment, neither of them moved. He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, shuddering, and then his gaze flew open. Zeroed in on her mouth. He licked his lips.
“I don’t want you,” he spit out through grinding teeth.
But even as he said that, his hand latched onto her thigh. Soft, slow. He exhaled with a tremor, and then his nails dug into her flesh. Hard.
She gasped, her hands still wrapped over her knees. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I don’t.” A muscle on his jaw feathered and his touch traveled to her hip. He prodded her soft body with a rough hand. Whatever control he had was slipping.
She lifted a trembling hand to his face and slid her fingers over his cheek; he was cold to the touch, and she shivered. His eyes fluttered shut momentarily, a torn expression flitting over his face. And for a moment, she wanted to believe that this connection between them was more than just desire. For her, it was much more. For him? She wasn’t even sure.
He loathed her; she could tell that much.
He loathed the way she made him feel. The way she had broken his heart. The way she had betrayed him.
But he still craved her and a part of her wanted to be with him as long as possible; to take whatever scrap of attention he gave her.
Nikator took her hips in both of his hands, his resolve dissolving as he tightened his hold on her. His nails jabbed into her flesh; not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath. Despite being injured, he yanked her body close to his until she was sitting on his lap. The bandages bloomed with more vermillion, but he didn’t seem to care. His hands roamed over her sides, her ribs, and then her breasts. Teasing, touching, rough. One last touch. One last moment before they would be ripped apart.
She could feel his need. His desire. It flared through the bond, hungry, starving.
“I don’t want you,” he whispered, mouth hovering over hers. His warm breath tickled her skin. “Damn it. I don’t—Ican’twant you.”
He fisted a hand in her hair, twisting her head up, and crushed his lips to hers. It was unlike any of their other kisses; rougher, more needy, more bittersweet. She kissed him deeply, her mouth parting, her back arching into his touch. His hands were urgent, desperate, ready to tear off her clothes.
Her body ached to be his. He was so intoxicating, so thrilling. She longed for him—forthis.
Their kisses were messy and unrestrained. There was no tenderness to his movements, only hurried grasps, breathless sighs and moans, and his low voice as he murmured, “I can’t have you, princess. Fuck. I can’t—” over and over, his mouth pressed low on her throat.
She wound her arms over his shoulders and he hissed in pain. His eyes flashed to hers and a slow, sharp grin twisted his lips. “You love that, don’t you? Hurting me.”
“Never,” she whispered.
He flipped her until she was laying beneath him. His eyes glowed, blood slickening his bandages. “Lies.”
“I could never?—”
He drowned out her next words with another kiss.
One second, he was smothering her with messy kisses and the next he was tearing off her clothes, plunging inside of her, their bodies melding together. Moving to a fast, violent rhythm. Like neither of them could get enough.
More. More. More.
She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to crash over the edge just yet, but he was pushing her over. He didn’t allow their lovemaking to be slow, stalled, and reverent.
She was boneless, senseless, with his touch. Sparks shot up her spine. And she still needed more from him.
She wanted every part of him.Every. Single. Piece.
Her hands curled over his shoulders, injured and not, and she barely registered his groan—of both pain and desire. “Say my name,” she rasped, desperate.
She needed to hear him sayBiyu. Not Princess.
Nikator grunted a response in his native tongue.
