Page 67 of The Tower

I’d really and truly believed that Elysium was real—at least as far as sex was concerned. The way my skin felt. The pure need that crashed through me. That tightening, tingling sensation in my core as my body silently screamed to be filled.

I’d had it all in Elysium. Haptics and toys and fantasy and dirty talk and my prince holding my arms down as he pounded deeper and deeper inside me until all I knew was the sensation of being filled by him and the scent of the grass at my back and the flowers swaying in the breeze.

All I wanted—all I knew— was his touch, so relentless it was almost cruel, at least until he finally drew me over. Then I’d scream his name as the sharp crest of orgasm after orgasm cut through me like a delicious punishment, and yet I begged for more.

I thought he’d taken me to the pinnacle. But I’d had no idea.

It’s different when it’s real.

The scent of his skin, the touch of his hand, the thrust of his cock. It’s all real now. All surrounding me, claiming me. Using me.

Wild sensations twist inside me, not haptics, but him. The way he’s somehow made every nerve ending in my body come alive, so my body screams with sensation as I rock against him, his cock deep inside me.

Liam Grimm. A man I was raised to hate. A man who has promised to help me, but only with the payment of my body. My submission.

Right now, that’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.

My legs are on either side of his hips, and his hands hold my bare ass. He’s controlling the way I rock against him, and my thighs quiver with every movement, the drag of him inside me sending sparks cascading through my veins, as if I’m catching fire from the inside out.

His hands are everywhere—gripping my hips with bruising intensity one moment, then trailing up my sides with surprising tenderness the next. The contradiction mirrors everything about him. Hard and soft. Cruel and kind. Enemy and savior.

I close my eyes, letting this cacophony of sensation carry me away, and when he says my name—Sasha, not Princess— it vibrates through me like a tuning fork struck against stone, somehow feeling even more intimate than his cock inside me.

“Look at me.” His command is soft but unmistakable. My eyes flutter open to find his staring into mine, and that electric blue burns with something far more dangerous than lust. “Don’t hide,” he adds, pushing my curtain of hair away from my face. “I want to see your eyes when you come .”

No one has ever looked at me like this—like they’re searching for something only I can give.

I want to look away, to shield myself from this unexpected vulnerability, but I can’t. His eyes hold me captive more effectively than his hands ever could.

“I don’t …” I start, my voice catching as he shifts beneath me, hitting a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. “I don’t know what this is.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face, there and gone. “Does it need a name?”

His answer sends a flutter through my stomach. No, this moment doesn’t need a name—names are for things you want to keep, to refer back to, to build on. This is ephemeral. Transactional. Nothing more.

At least that’s what I tell myself even as I lean down and press my lips to his, the kiss softer than I intended.

He freezes for half a heartbeat—just long enough for doubt to creep in—before his hand slides into my hair, fingers threading through the strands to cradle the back of my head. He holds me against him as he kisses me back, not with the bruising force I expected, but with a slow, deliberate, thoroughness that makes my entire body tingle.

“Move,” he whispers, the word a hot caress against my mouth. “Take what you want.”

I don’t know if the words are permission or demand, but I don’t care. Something loosens inside me, some tight coil of restraint I hadn’t even realized was there. I begin to rock against him, finding a rhythm that sends lightning through my veins with each stroke. My head falls back, my body arching as pleasure builds, hot and insistent.

His hands slide up my body —fingers spread wide across my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts before moving higher to circle my nipples. The sensation connects directly to the heat between my legs, and I gasp, thrown by the overwhelming pleasure cutting through me like waves.

“Don’t stop.” He issues the command as one hand leaves my breast to slide between us and tease my clit. The touch zings through me like electricity, and I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Is this what you need?” His voice is lower now, rougher, but his eyes never leave mine as his fingers move in tight, precise circles. “Me teasing your clit? Making you come. Playing with your naughty little pussy?”

“Yes,” I manage, the word barely a breath. “Oh, yes.”

His eyes darken, and his movements grow more insistent. “Tell me,” he demands, his hips rising to meet mine. “I want to hear what you want.”

My cheeks bloom with heat, but at the same time, his demand taps into some hidden well of boldness I didn’t even know I possessed. Something in me that’s been buried beneath years of my father’s control, just waiting to be drawn out.

“Harder,” I whisper.

The corner of his mouth curves up as those amazing fingers press more firmly, moving in tighter circles that make my breath catch. Heat spreads through me like wildfire, and I rock against him, chasing the building pressure.