To heal a Rogue

BONNIE

His mouth was devastating. That was the only word for it, the way he took control of the kiss, the way his tongue slid against mine with deliberate, devastating skill. I hadn’t expected him to be this good. I hadn’t expected my whole body to light up like a match struck against dry tinder, every nerve ending suddenly awake and screaming for more.

I made a sound against his mouth, something embarrassingly needy, and he swallowed it like he’d been starving for it. His fingers tightened in my hair, not pulling hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to let me know exactly who had me. The possessiveness of it sent a thrill shooting down my spine, pooling hot and heavy between my thighs.

A part of me.did know I was not supposed to be doing this. Giving him hope. But was that what this was? Could I really lie to myself that I was simply doing this to get my head off things that had happened or it was simply the fact that I wanted this. That I wanted him.

"Bonnie," he breathed against my lips, and the way he said my name, like a prayer, like a curse, made me shiver.

I pushed at his chest, not to get him away, but to get him where I wanted him. He understood immediately, rolling onto his back and pulling me with him until I was straddling his hips, the blanket tangled somewhere around our legs. I could feel him hard and thick beneath me, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and the knowledge that I did that to him—that I made the composed, untouchable soon to be Alpha King come undone—went straight to my head like good wine.

"You’re wearing too many clothes," I said, my voice rough in a way I didn’t recognize.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. "So are you."

He was wrong. I had this thin, nearly sheer gown on, but he was probably just seeing red from his hunger.

I caught the hem of the gown and lifted it over my head in one swift motion, letting the cool air brush against my skin as I stood before him in nothing but my bra and panties. I didn’t feel cold, not with the way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. His gaze traced the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, and when he reached out to touch me, his hands were almost reverent.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and then his palms were cupping me through the thin lace, thumbs brushing over my nipples with maddening patience.

I arched into his touch, grinding down against him without meaning to, and we both groaned at the friction. He felt impossibly hard, and I was already wet, the fabric between us doing nothing to dull the sensation. I rolled my hips experimentally, and his grip on my waist turned bruising.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his head falling back against the pillow. "Do that again."

I did. I set a slow, torturous rhythm, rocking against him while his hands roamed my body like he was mapping me, learning every curve and sensitive spot. He found the clasp of my bra and unhooked it with practiced ease, and then his mouth was on my breast, hot and wet and perfect. His tongue circled my nipple before he sucked hard, and I cried out, my rhythm faltering as pleasure spiked through me.

"Don’t stop," he commanded against my skin, his voice rough and authoritative in a way that made me obey immediately.

I kept moving, riding the hard line of him through our clothes, the pressure building in my core with every roll of my hips. He switched to my other breast, laving attention on it until I was panting, until my thighs were shaking where they bracketed his hips. I could feel myself getting closer, embarrassingly close, just from this... Just from dry humping him like a teenager while he sucked bruises into my skin.

"Lysander," I gasped, and he bit down gently, making me see stars.

He released my breast with a wet sound that should have been obscene but was somehow perfect. "I want to taste you," he said, his eyes meeting mine with dark intent. "I want to know if you’re as sweet as you look."

My breath hitched. "Then do it."

He moved faster than I expected, flipping us so I was on my back with him kneeling between my legs. He pulled off his shirt, and for the first time, I had an unobstructed view of him. Broad shoulders, a defined chest, and abs that looked carved from stone. He was unfairly gorgeous, all hard lines and pale skin, and I wanted to run my hands over every inch of him.

I reached for the button of his trousers, but he caught my wrist. "Not yet," he said, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me. Please."

The please did me in. I nodded, letting my hand fall back to the bedding as he worked his magic, taking my underwear with them. I was bare before him, exposed and vulnerable, but the way he looked at me—like I was a feast and he’d been fasting for years—made me feel so fucking good.

I was partially covered in blood but he did not seem to care.

He spread my thighs wider and settled between them, his breath hot against my most sensitive skin. "Perfect," he whispered, and then his mouth was on me.

I nearly came off the bed.

His tongue dragged through my folds with long, slow strokes, like he was savoring me, learning my taste. He found my clit with unerring accuracy, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, and my hands flew to his hair, gripping tight.

"Oh goddess," I panted, my hips bucking against his mouth. "Don’t stop—please—"

He didn’t. He doubled his efforts, his tongue working me with relentless precision while his hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him. The pleasure was building fast, coiling tight in my belly, and I could feel myself getting wetter with every pass of his tongue. He moaned against me and the vibration sent shockwaves through my core, and I knew he was enjoying this... Enjoying making me fall apart.

He pushed one finger inside me, curling it to find that spot that made my vision blur, and I was lost. I came with a cry that was probably too loud, my whole body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed through me, and he kept licking me through it, drawing out every spasm until I was trembling and oversensitive.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was shining with my arousal, and the sight of it—prim, proper Lysander looking thoroughly debauched—sent another pulse of heat through me.

"You taste better than I imagined," he said, his voice rough. "I want to do that again. And again. Until you can’t remember your name."

I sat up, my limbs still shaky, and reached for him. "My turn."

I pushed him back and climbed over him, my confidence returning now that I’d felt him, tasted his desire for me. I undid his trousers and freed him, and he was as beautiful there as he was everywhere else. He was thick, hard, and curving up toward his stomach, with the tip already wet with precum.

I wrapped my hand around him, and his hips jerked, a strangled sound escaping his throat. "Bonnie—"

"Shh," I said, and then I lowered my mouth to him.

He tasted like salt and skin, warm and distinctly masculine, and the sensation sent a shiver through me. I took him as deep as I could, and his hands found my hair again, not guiding me, just holding on as though I were his only anchor.

"Your mouth," he groaned, his hips shifting restlessly. "Fuck, your mouth..."

I used my hand where I couldn’t reach with my lips, stroking him in time with my movements, and his breathing grew ragged, his grip on my hair tightening. I could feel him throbbing, could taste more of his arousal leaking onto my tongue, and I knew he was close.

"Wait," he gasped, pulling me off him with gentle insistence. "Wait, I want... I need to feel you. Like this."

He pulled me up his body until I was straddling him again, both of us flushed and breathless. He was still partially dressed, and the closeness between us sent another wave of heat through my body. His hands settled firmly on my hips as our bodies moved together, drawing a helpless moan from both of us. The intimacy of it made my toes curl, and for a moment, neither of us seemed capable of thinking about anything beyond the other.

"Like this," he repeated, his eyes locked on mine as he positioned himself so he was sliding against my clit with every movement. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," I breathed, and then I was moving, rocking against him, feeling the hard length of him brush against me with every roll of my hips. It was perfect, the friction exactly where I needed it, the sensation sending heat rushing through me. When I reached between us, my hand closed around him, and I stroked him in rhythm with my movements, drawing a low groan from his throat.

We found a rhythm together, messy and desperate and perfect. His hands were everywhere—on my breasts, my hips, my ass—pulling me closer, harder against him.

I could feel an orgasm building, slower and deeper this time, and from the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes had gone dark and unfocused, I knew he was close too.

"Bonnie," he panted, his thumb finding my clit and circling it in tight, firm strokes. "Come with me. Please... let me feel you..."

We were so close. So fucking close.

Then a loud knock shattered the moment completely.

"Your Majesty!" a voice called from the other side of the door. "There has been an attack in the infirmary."

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