Page 57 of Their Wicked Cage
And it’s clear he can’t get enough either.
He falls on top of me, pressing my back into the desk. One hand glides along my frame, pausing at my ankle. He lifts it in an unspoken request to wrap my legs around his hips, and I do. Cool air caresses my calves, my thighs, as my dress bunches around my hips, and at this angle, my core is flush against the mouth-watering bulge in his trousers. I pull him tighter against me with my legs, and he hisses as if I’ve burned him. I barely have a second to register the sound before he grinds into me.
It has been years since a male has touched me, and my body ignites and slickens all at once.
The space between my thighs is a puddle, a sopping fucking mess, as his erection brushes against my cunt with only a couple of layers of fabric separating us from being skin to skin. I want to climb on top of him, but I settle for lifting my hips to meet his, desperate for more. We’re a frenzied mess, rubbing against one another, chasing release without actually removing our clothes.
It’s exhilarating.
He breaks away, panting, one hand massaging the back of his neck, before his mouth presses fever-hot kisses against my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, and, holy gods, the moment he bites and sucks my shoulder, I’m on the edge of bursting. Riven’s mouth, gods, that mouth, is sinful and delicious as he kisses and nips and—
“Ah!” I cry out at a sudden sharp pain in my side.
Riven all but throws himself away from me.
He’s staring wide-eyed at where I’m sprawled on his desk. I reach and prod the sore spot on my side, twisting to find what caused that cursed flare of pain.
I laugh breathlessly as I pick up a gold letter opener. “Your letter—”
My words are cut off by the sight of Riven sliding to the floor with his back pressed firmly against the wall, his head cradled in his hands. I’m instantly on alert and cataloguing what might be wrong with the king and what blossoms I have at my disposal—not many—as I rush across the room and kneel beside him.
“Riven?”
He says nothing.
“Riven, are you all right?” I try again. He looks up and stares blankly at the mess we made of his office—the crumpled papers and knocked down books, the spilled ink, the letters sprawled across the floor. “Are you hurt?”
“Am I hurt?” His eyes snap to mine, and they are filled with worry. “No. I’m fine. But you’re…?”
“I’m perfectly fine too,” I reassure him, though I’m not sure why I need to. Distrust swirls deep in my belly, banking the fire that burned there just moments ago. “Why wouldn’t I be? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“You’re fine,” he whispers, as if he’s saying this to himself.
He takes a deep breath.
Two.
By the sixth inhale, embarrassment rages through me.
Does he regret how close we came?
Is this his way of dismissing me?
“You never should’ve kissed me,” he says quietly, as if he can read my mind. Or maybe my thoughts truly are written all over my face. “I’m—”
“—not interested in non-fae females,” I cut in. “I know. It won’t happen again.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say, Gwyn.”
My brow furrows. “Then what…?”
“The pain you felt is because of me and my—”
“Letter opener?” I brandish the little demon. “This is what jabbed me.”
His gaze drifts between it and my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Riven. What else would it have been?”
