When Nelle Wychthorn was forced to sign herself away in marriage, she should have read the contract's fine print. Because she signs not with ink, but with blood. And that changes everything.
Season 1 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
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Wychthorn's elbows gave out and she slumped upon the bed, but this time I didn't bark at her to get back up. Caught up within a world of sensuality, her wild hair was sexily mussed from all the thrashing she'd done. Pale stands of hair were caught across the thick lashes fringing her blissed-out eyes and I leaned over to carefully brush them away. She bodily shuddered and moaned throatily as I continued to pleasure her with swift, deep pumps of my fingers. Intently watching those glacial eyes of hers, half-hooded and clouded with desire, I drank in the vulnerability swirling in their depth, the confusion at who I was, what I was doing, and how I made her feel. I could see it in her eyes, taste it on my tongue, how much she wanted it, wanted me.
I'd allow her to get close to shattering, then withdraw my fingers, kiss her inner thighs, or lick her sweat-slick belly until desperate and angry for that elusive climax I denied her, she'd let loose a string of curses, some of it in Balinese. She'd even given me a fucking foot in the face and bared her teeth at me.
Gods, she was so responsive. She loved every single thing I did to her.
I played with her body, wanting to know what would make her combust. And I wasn't done with her yet. This...her here with me...I wanted to savor it. I wanted to draw out that impending climax. I didn't want just one from her. I wanted another. Then another. Until she was a boneless, sticky mess.
I'd discovered a whispering gentle touch made her pussy quiver. But a tweak or nip or bite of her nipples; a pinch or a rough rub on her clit; made her pussy grip my fingers so tightly I thought I'd never get free. And she grew slicker and slicker with every dirty word I whispered into her ear, her hips moving in time with my thrusts, and her husky moans becoming growls.
Fuck yes.
My little bird's perfect.
She warred with me mentally and physically, and it was turning my fucking world upside down and inside out.
Like a bastard, I held her right there, right on the edge. I really wanted to have her come all over my tongue, but for her first time, I needed to see her fall apart and detonate. It was a heady feeling—she was mine and I, only I, was going to make her completely unravel beneath my touch. An insatiable need burned through my veins to see her fall apart, hear her crying out my name, surprising me.
But shouldn't I know that?
How many times had I given in to my darkest craving?
When I lost myself in too much whiskey, I'd purposely pick a petite blond eager to fuck me, and when I did, I always rode them from behind, Nelle's pretty face filling my mind as I imagined their pussy cinching my cock was hers, my name they moaned, was her voice, the hitch in their breath before they came, hers too.
I craved her.
I always had.
Lowering my head, I tipped my forehead against Nelle's, and we shared breath just before I kissed her, tasting that tantalizing sunshine as my tongue caressed hers. That sparking sensation, that always charged between us, buzzed beneath my skin in rapturous pulses, sweeping from the top of my head to my toes, driving our twin-heartbeats faster. This was nothing, nothing, I'd ever experienced with any other woman. Like the magic-infused drugs we sold through the cartels, this was addicting. I wanted more from my little bird—I wanted everything.
