J. Ward: The King

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Wrath tore off his wraparounds and smiled, exposing his dental hardware. “Nothing in the way…”

Looming over her, he latched onto her nipple while his hands went to the waistband of her black jeans. All things considered, he was pretty polite as he unhooked the catch and unzipped, but she knew what was coming …

With a violent jerk, he laid waste to what had been a two-week-old pair of Levi’s.

She didn’t care. Neither did he.

Oh, God, she needed this.

“You’re right, it’s been way too long,” she hissed as he went after his own fly, popping the buttons free, unleashing an erection that still managed to take her breath away.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out as he grabbed her behind the neck and mounted her.

As she opened her thighs wide for him, she knew exactly why he was apologizing. “Don’t be— Jesus! ”

The blazing possession was exactly what she wanted—and so was the rough ride he gave her, his heavy weight crushing her, her bare ass squeaking against the floor as he pounded into her, her legs straining to link around so he could go even deeper. It was total domination, his great body pistoning in an erotic pump that got ever faster and more intense.

But as good as it was, she knew how to take things to the next level. “Aren’t you thirsty yet?” she drawled.

Total. Molecular. Stoppage.

Like he’d been hit with an ice ray. Or maybe a truck.

As he lifted his head, his eyes lit up so brightly, she knew if she looked on the floor next to her, she’d see her own shadow.

Digging into his shoulders with her nails, she arched up to him and cocked her head to the side. “How about something to drink?”

His lips curled off his fangs and he let out a cobra’s hiss.

The bite was like being stabbed, but the pain faded into a sweet delirium that carried her to another dimension. Floating and grounded at the same time, she moaned and pushed her fingers into his hair, yanking him even closer as he sucked at her throat and thrust into her sex.

She orgasmed—and so did he.

Duh.

God, after a dry spell of how long? At least a month—which was unheard of for them—she realized how much they both had to have this. Too much static from all the demands around them. Too much stress polluting the hours. Too much toxic crap they didn’t have time to process with each other.

Like, after he’d been shot in the neck, had they really talked about it? Sure, there had been the OMG, you’re alive, you made it stuff … but she was still flinching every time a doggen opened a bottle of wine in the dining room or the Brothers played pool after hours.

Who knew that a cue ball smacking into a rack sounded exactly like a gun going off?

She hadn’t. Not until Xcor had decided to put a bullet into Wrath’s jugular.

Hardly the kind of education she’d been looking for—

For no good reason, tears flooded her eyes and broke free, tangling in her lashes and seeping down her cheeks even as another round of pleasure flooded her body.

And then the image of Wrath’s gunshot wound billboarded her vision.

Red blood on the bulletproof vest he’d worn. Red blood on his muscle shirt. Red blood on his skin.

The dangerous times come home, the ugliness of reality no longer a hypothetical bogeyman in her mental closet, but a scream in her soul.

Red was the color of death to her.

Wrath froze for a second time and jerked his head up. “Leelan?”

Opening her eyes, she had a sudden panic that she couldn’t see him right, that that face she looked for in every room no matter the hour was gone, that that visual confirmation of his life wasn’t going to be there for the taking anymore.

Except all she had to do was blink. Blink, blink, blink … and he was back with her, clear as day.

And that made her cry more. Because her strong, beloved man was blind—and though that didn’t make him handicapped in her opinion, it did cheat him out of some fundamentals, and that just wasn’t fair.

“Oh, fuck, I hurt you—”

“No, no…” She took his face in her hands. “Don’t stop.”

“I should have gone over to the bed—”

The sure way to get him refocused was to arch under him, and she did, undulating and rolling her hips so that her core stroked him. And Hello, big boy, the friction registered, rendering him tongue-tied and torn.

“Don’t stop,” she reiterated, trying to draw him back down to her vein. “Ever…”

But Wrath held off, stroking a piece of hair away from her face. “Don’t think like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

There was no reason to define what “like that” meant: Treasonous plots. Wrath at that ornate desk, strangled by his position. The future unknown and not in a good way.

“I’m goin’ nowhere, leelan . You don’t worry about a goddamn thing. Understand me?”

Beth wanted to believe him. Needed to. But she feared it was a promise far harder to keep than speak.

“Beth?”

“Make love to me.” It was the only truth she could put out there that wouldn’t burst the bubble. “Please.”

He kissed her once. Twice. And then started to move again. “Always, leelan . Always.”

Best. Night. Ever.

As Wrath pushed himself off of his shellan an hour later, he couldn’t breathe, he was bleeding at the throat, and his Man of Steel cock had finally gone wet-noodle.

Although knowing the damn thing’s stamina? He had five, maybe ten minutes before Mr. Happy got to grinnin’ again.

The big bed in the center of the loft’s vast space had been upgraded since his Beth had mated him, and as he stretched out on his back, he had to admit that having sex on the thing was so much better than doing it on the floor. That said, as he recovered, its sheets were unnecessary as he could have fried an egg on his chest from the exertion. Blankets were an absolute hell-no. Pillows had been lost quickly because there was no headboard, but the advantage was leverage from any compass point.

Sometimes he liked to put a foot down and really dig in.

Beth let out a sigh that was longer and more satisfying than a Shakespearian sonnet—and talk about a hell-yeah? Wrath’s chest inflated like a hot-air balloon.

“I do you okay?” he drawled.

“God. Yes.”

More with the smiling. It was The Mask all over again, nothing but Jim Carrey, Pepsodent white over here. And she was right: The sex had been beyond fantastic. He’d fucked her across the floor until they were in range of the mattress. Then, like the gentlemale he was, he’d put her on the bed … and had her another three times. Four?

He could do this all night—

Sure as an eclipse could wipe out the moon, his cosmic relaxation disappeared and took all warmth with it.

There was no all night for him anymore. Not when it came to kickin’ it with his female.

“Wrath?”

“I’m right here, leelan ,” he murmured.

As she rolled onto her side, he could feel her staring at him, and even though his vision had finally given up the ghost and conked out on him entirely, he could picture her long, thick black hair and her blue eyes and her beautiful face.

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine.”

Shit, what time was it? Had it been longer than the hour it had felt like? Probably. When it came to the grind with Beth, he could lose motherfucking days.

“It’s after one,” she said softly.

“Fuck me.”

“Would it help to talk? Wrath … can you tell me where you’re at?”

Ah, hell, she was right. He had been checking out a lot lately, retreating to a place in his mind where the chaos couldn’t get to him—not a bad thing, but it was a solo trip.