9
The Last Stand of the Westerlands
Ravenna’s smooth hips designed the perfect movement, arcing under his hands as she slid herself over him in full, agonizing strokes. Riding with such beautiful dexterity, as if she’d spun this skill from centuries of practice. The way she pulled him closer to finish, his undoing, and yet stilled him, drawing out both their pleasures, was a magic of its own kind.
Somewhere in him screamed a denial, but it never touched his lips, and as she rolled forward, her dark hair tickling the beads of sweat dancing upon the flesh of his chest, he spilled so hard within her he feared they might both fly from the bed.
He struggled for words through ragged breaths. Now he had to find them. This couldn’t go on. He’d sworn it would never, ever come to pass in this wa
