Page 42 of Craving the Edge

I tilted my hips up, an unspoken plea. More.

He answered, pushing the rest of the way in with one stroke. A groan tore from his throat as he buried himself completely inside me and I arched into him crying out. He went still again, as if he wanted to feel me wrapped around him before either of us moved. My body shuddered, adjusting to the thickness of him.

My legs came up, locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. That was all it took to break his resolve. He started to move, his first thrusts deep and controlled. There was no rush, just a powerful, claiming rhythm that met the frantic ache inside me.

His right hand slid under my thigh, lifting my leg higher against his side, changing the angle. The shift sent a shockwave of heat straight to my core. My hands slid from his shoulders, my nails dragging down the sweat-slicked muscles of his back as I started to roll my hips, meeting each of his thrusts.

His pace built, the careful control fraying into something more urgent. His breathing roughened against my ear, his weight shifting onto one forearm to free his other hand. His palm slapped against my hip, his fingers digging in, holding me steady as he drove into me.

I lost myself. My whole world was just him, and every stroke of his cock filling me, claiming the aching hollow inside me. His body pressed me into the mattress, overwhelming the noise in my head until all that remained was the raw sensation of him.

I’d never felt like this before. So alive.

He shifted, his hand hooking under my knee. He lifted my leg, pulling it up until my calf rested on his shoulder. The new angle was an electric shock, pulling a sharp gasp from me as he drove in deeper. He looked down, his green eyes dark and intense, his jaw tight as he watched where our bodies joined.

“Fuck, Char,” he growled. “You feel so fucking good wrapped around me.”

He held the rhythm there, a powerful rocking that had me writhing. He watched my expression, his gaze locked onto mine as pleasure tightened inside me. After a dozen more thrusts, he eased my leg back down. His full weight settled over me again, his chest flush against mine, his heart thudding a frantic beat against my own.

The pace gentled. His thrusts turned slow, impossibly deep, each one a claiming press that stole my breath. My hands slid from his back to his forearms, my fingers digging in. My hips rose to meet every deliberate stroke, the friction of our bodies building into a steady, undeniable fire.

I pushed against his chest in a wordless command. He understood immediately, his body yielding as he rolled onto his back without breaking our connection.

I was on top now, straddling his hips. I braced my hands flat against his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart beneath my palms. I was in charge now.

I set the pace, a slow grind that dragged a guttural sound from his throat. My hair fell forward like a dark curtain around my shoulders. He was a man who could destroy another fighter in the cage with his bare hands, and here he was, flat on his back, his cock buried deep inside me, letting me call every shot.

His hands came to rest on my hips, his eyes never leaving my face. He watched me as if he was memorising every flicker of my expression. Every gasp, every moan…

Leaning forward, I braced my hands on the pillow on either side of his head, caging him just as he’d done to me. I slowed the rhythm, changing the angle to a deliberate, circular grind that drew the moment out, torturing us both.

I owned him.

I rode him with an urgency that matched the frantic beat of my own heart. He was mine. In this room, in this bed, he belonged to me.

He thrust upward from below, a powerful surge that stole my breath and sent a jolt straight to my core. The control I thought I had shattered.

He broke the rhythm, sitting up in one fluid motion. His arm wrapped around my back, pulling me tight against his chest as he shifted his weight. He flipped us over, a single, seamless movement that ended with my back pressed into the mattress and him looming over me again.

His free hand captured my wrists, pinning them in a single, rough grip to the bed above my head, trapping me.

The fight between us, the push and pull that defined every moment since he walked into Fighter’s Edge, was playing out right here.

“Wait,” he rasped, his voice a low growl against my ear. “Don’t let go yet. Come with me.”

He drove into me again, the rhythm harder now, faster. Deeper. Each thrust was a claiming, a desperate attempt to erase the space between us. My hips lifted off the bed to meet him, my body instinctively chasing the friction, the overwhelming pressure building in my core. I was losing the battle for control, my orgasm climbing.

“I’m close,” I ground out, the words ripped from my throat. “Declan… Don’t stop…”

That final, desperate push was all it took. The pure force of his cock thrusting into me, sent the tension spiking and I shattered. My orgasm hit in a violent, blinding wave that ripped through me, my inner muscles clenching hard around the thick length of him.

“Declan!”

My entire body tightened, convulsing in crest after crest of release. My head fell back, every thought wiped clean, leaving only the raw, overwhelming sensation of him filling me.

No one had ever made me feel this. Owned. Claimed. So utterly undone.

He kept moving. He drove through my climax, his thrusts powerful and steady, his gaze locked on my face as if he wanted to memorise the exact moment I fell apart. He drew it out, his control absolute, pushing me through wave after wave until my release pulled his out of him.