The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 95

Chapter 95: Ninety Five

Valka

I buck my hips, trying to dislodge him. It only flushes our hips together.

His head dips. I brace for a kiss, but instead, his lips, cool and soft, brush the sensitive skin just below my ear. A shudder racks my body. Damn him.

"Fight all you want, Valka," he rumbles against my skin, the vibration going straight to my core. His mouth traces the shell of her ear. "Scream. Scratch. Bite." His free hand slides down, skimming over the fabric covering my collarbone, then lower. He cups the swell of my left breast through the thin material, his thumb finding the peak. Rubbing, slow and teasing. And then, he flicks.

Fire shoots through my nerves. My back arches off the ground of its own volition before I can stop it. A desperate sound escapes me, a choked gasp.

A low, dark sound of content rattles in his chest. "See?" His mouth trails lower, leaving a cool, tingling path down my neck. "Your body knows. Better than you do."

His head dips even lower. He nuzzles the swell of my breast where the fabric stretched tight. His breath is hot and cool all at once. Then his tongue darts out, a slow lick tracing the curve of my other nipple through the cloth. The fabric grows damp. The sensation is electric, unbearable.

Oh. Fuck.

I groan, my hips jerking helplessly against the solid weight pinning me down. Need, raw and primal, pulses through me, concentrated at the apex of my thighs. I ache as wet heat blooms there.

He lifts his head then, just enough to meet my eyes. Pools of ancient darkness, alight with predatory satisfaction. His fangs glint, sharp and white. The hand that had been at my breast slides lower, over my ribs, my stomach. Purposeful. Unhurried.

He holds my gaze captive as his fingers find the waistband of my pants. Then dips beneath it. Lower still. My breath catches, trapped in my throat. I hold it, every muscle locked tight. Waiting.

His fingers brush the damp lace. Not inside. Not yet. Just resting there, branding, possessing without penetration. Without even moving.

Silver lashes flutter, his eyes glazing. "Tell me you don’t belong to me," he says, his voice thick with a hunger that mirrors my own. His eyes dare me, challenge me to deny the truth screaming in my blood, in the slick wetness beneath his fingers. "Go on. Say it."

His fingers rest heavy against the lace, pushing slightly, applying pressure to my clit. My hip jerks to meet his hand, but he pulls back. "Tell me again that you cannot stand me."

My throat locks. Denial is like ash on my tongue. I want to scream it, claw it at him, but my increasing wetness is a damning confession my lips refuse to voice. I just glare into those ancient, shadowed eyes, willing him to see the anger and not the desperate tremor running through me.

He laughs. "Stubborn."

In one fluid motion, his weight is gone. Before I can gasp, before I can even think of scrambling away, his hands are on me again. He hauls me upright with terrifying ease and my back hits the rough bark of the tree once more.

Pleading claws at my throat. Please. Touch me. More. But I won’t. I stare down at the top of his silver head, at the sharp lines of his profile illuminated by the brightening morning. And still, I say nothing. Refusing to break my vow of silence.

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