Page 113 of Shattered Jewel
My body is burning for him, yearning for him.
Desperate.
I reach down to grip his hard length over his jeans. Axe’s breath stutters and he presses into my hand, seeking friction.
He pushes two fingers inside of me then, pumping slowly while his thumb continues to circle my clit with a torturous pace that has me writhing. The exquisite pressure builds, a mounting crescendo that threatens to fracture.
“Please.” I almost weep, raking my nails down his back through the thin layer of his shirt.
If I cause him pain, he wants it, because he tortures me further by almost bringing me to climax, then backing off.
“Say it again,” Axe orders, his voice tight and strangled.
Before I can, his lips crash onto mine in a heated frenzy, swallowing my half-formed words and whispers.
Axe releases a guttural sound into my mouth then pushes away. His fingers cease their torment, leaving me gasping.
But his focus stays on me, drinking in my disheveled state—the flushed cheeks, the heaving chest, the parted lips.
“Elara,” his voice is a ragged whisper, a plea. Perhaps a prayer.
He grinds against my hand, his own coming to rest over mine as he guides it under his pants and I can stroke him bare.
The friction is maddeningly delicious, both for him and for me.
“I need you,” he rasps.
The heat between us is unabated, a wildfire racing across parched land.
I pull my hand out, fingers finding purchase in his shirt’s fabric, tugging it free from his body.
Axe’s muscular torso is carved from pale granite. Each line and ridge of muscle is pronounced under my touch. Each brutal scar forms an obvious ridge under my hands.
I trail my fingers over him in fascinated exploration, lightly tracing over the contours of his body, losing my breath when he mirrors my actions and does the same to me.
Axe keenly observes every response I give him. Then he frees himself, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down in a swift move.
Axe is bared—so undeniably him—and my heart lurches.
There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes me then, hoisting me up against the wall with ease, as if my weight means nothing to him.
I moan against his lips, lost, as he pushes me harder against the wall. The cool surface bites into my back.
With one hand, he covers my mouth, pushing my head against the wall at the same time he slips his dick deep inside me. I gasp against his palm at the intrusion, feeling myself stretch around him as he begins to move in a brutal rhythm.
It feels good—too good—and it takes everything away except pure, pleasure-pain bliss.
Axe thrusts into me harder. There’s no softness left in him now, just raw force, a man drowning in torture but choosing to die in ecstasy.
I endure every punishing thrust with a smothered gasp that feels like surrender.
His pace is relentless, driving us both towards an edge we’re teetering on. I respond in kind, my body matching his rhythm as I cling to him for support, the wainscotting halfway up the wall digging painfully into my back.
Axe’s climax detonates through his body, the power of it rippling through every muscle, every vein, until all that remains is what I can cling to. He’s threadbare, but his fingers claw into my hips, holding on tight as he loses the rest of himself.
He stays entwined with me, slowing his pace. Axe’s lips trail soft kisses along my neck, each one a silent confession etched into my skin.
Axe slides in and out of me with excruciating gentleness, his aching need now sated, replaced with an indescribable intimacy. One that goes beyond skin and bone to touch upon something ethereal.