Ebony Rising (The Raven Queen's Harem 2)

“The Darkness is too strong. You’re running out of time to pick a mate. But I also think you’re scared to choose between us. That if you lose your virginity to one of us, then that’s it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t work like that, Morgan. You’re free to make the choice. Having sex with one of us doesn’t bind you forever. That energy needs a place to go—you felt it tonight. You felt her. She’ll only get stronger.”

“So you think it should be you?” He’s right. I’ve been afraid of this moment for weeks. Particularly with him. It seems ironic yet strangely accurate that he would be the one to push me on this.

“It can be any of us, sweetheart, but it needs to happen soon.”

He stands before me and waits. I know in my heart I can dismiss him and he’d leave. I could ask for any of the others and they’d come. But the consuming energy from the concert is still live and charged between us, and the fear that has knotted in my chest for weeks slowly dissipates.

I take a step forward, closing the gap between us.

“I’m scared.”

He frowns. “Of me?”

“No. Of how things will change from here. I mean, my life has already changed a lot. Living here. The Morrigan. The magic.” I swallow. “The sex.”

“Your right. It’s another step, but a necessary one. I don’t think you’ll regret it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t have to be me, Morgan. I can walk out that door.”

I consider how earlier I’d wondered if Sam would be the one. So kind and a good friend. He’d take care of me for sure. And Bunny? He would be gentle. I knew that. Damien would treat me like a princess. Dylan would give me a night I would never, ever forget. But Clinton? He’d been the one I was afraid of from the beginning.

Which may make him the perfect one.

“Maybe nothing about tonight was a coincidence? Maybe we’re meant to do this.”

He ghosts his hand down my shoulder, his fingers linking with mine.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

I nod and lick my lips and a switch flips between us. All of the talk and worry and craziness of the night disappears. Clinton pulls me into his arms, his hands grappling with my backside, pushing up the hem of my dress. He lifts me up and I straddle his hips, happy to be face-to-face with him since he’s so tall.

He walks quickly toward the bedroom, holding me like a treasure. I kiss his forehead, cheeks, nose, and mouth. He tastes like liquor from the club and when he stops at the edge of my bed I can’t believe I ever hesitated.

“Tell me to stop at any time. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“I regret that scene at the bar, Clinton. I never wanted to be with him. I wanted to be with you. You were magnificent up there on the stage. So strong. So sensual. I thought about your mouth. Your lips. I thought about your cock and what it would feel like inside of me. It was too much—too intense. That’s why I left. Xavier just got in the line of fire between us. Stupid boy.”

A shift takes place on his face. Something feral and less constrained. When I mentioned his cock I felt him tighten between my legs. With one hand he gently lays me on the bed. He stands over me, pants tented with arousal. He places two hands on my bare legs and pushes my skirt over my hips. I rise up and his eyes turn glassy at the sight of my black, lace panties.

The next few minutes are a blur. I lose my dress, the black fringe falls to the floor. Clinton’s shirt follows, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. I eye the ladder of muscle that flinches at my touch and I can’t look away from the hair that travels from his navel to the waistband of his pants. When I tug at the button and he quickly shucks them off. I can’t help but stare at his throbbing erection.

It’s big like the rest of him.

My stomach tightens in anticipation and the space between my legs grows warmer with desire. I should be afraid but I’m not. I desperately want his weight and warmth on top of me and I pull him down.

The contrast between the two of us—hard to soft—is a glorious feeling. His arousal pushes against my core, each of us slippery with excitement. His mouth meets mine and he kisses me hotly. Hard. His hands move to my breasts and he explores them with the same precision he uses playing the cello or teaching me to fight. When there’s a gap of space between us I lift my hips, wanting, wanting and wanting to feel him against me—in me.

He doesn’t need my permission but when he stares down at me I realize that he’s waiting. This is my choice. Everything about this is my choice. My mate. My guardians. The fight between good and evil.

“Please,” I beg, reaching between our bodies. I touch the velvet tip of his cock in invitation.

He’s quick, entering me with a swift motion. I cry out in surprise, feeling the spread of pain. The intrusiveness of warmth. My eyes are shut when I hear his voice, “Breathe, sweetheart,” and I do, unclenching my teeth and exhaling long and shuddering.

I open my eyes and find him staring at me, checking on me, but I’m fading into the feeling of him inside of me, marveling at the way my body reacts to him. I slip my hand over his bicep and squeeze. He moves his hips, just a little, circling them in a way that causes me to gasp, “Oh!”

It’s in a good way. A very good way.

Clinton realizes the shift, the way I’ve relaxed to his movements, the way the sensations adjusted from pain to pleasure. He pulls nearly all the way out before slipping back in. The move triggers a wave through my body. I can’t help but smile when he does it again.

He smiles back.