Page 461 - Fourth Wing

both do. The last thing anyone wants are little quadrant babies running

around. But it’s better said than sorry.
“Same.” He grips my hips, lifting me for a better angle, and the head of

his cock rubs against my clit. I gasp and his eyes lock with mine. The

hunger I see etched in every tense line of his body is my undoing. I don’t
care if it damns us. I need him.

No more holding back. Not anymore.

I reach between us, guiding the head of his cock to my entrance, but this
position is shit. He’s considerably taller than the desk, and if I wasn’t so

desperate for him, I’d laugh, but I am. I arch, but it doesn’t help. Every

second we wait feels like it stretches on for a decade.
“Fucking desk,” he swears.

My thoughts exactly.
His biceps flex as he lifts me by the backs of my thighs, and I wrap my

arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, my dressing gown

caught between us as he pivots. Our mouths meet in a ravenous kiss as my
back hits the armoire, but I barely blink, too consumed with the stroke of

his tongue, the feel of him between my thighs.
“Shit. Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine. You won’t break me.”

He pushes inside that first, tight inch of me, and I gasp at the fit, the
stretch.

“More.” I’m too busy kissing him to speak. “I need all of you.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, Violet.” Whatever’s left of his
control slips, and he takes me completely with one hard thrust.

I moan into the kiss. Deep. He’s so fucking deep that I feel him

everywhere.
“Tell me you’re all right.” He’s already moving, thank gods.

“I’m perfect.” Better than perfect. Power blazes beneath my skin again,
buzzing in wordless, frenzied demand.