Married To The Mad Vampire Lord

Belle had long yearned for her husband, but his reluctance to touch her, born from the fear of hurting her, had kept her from ever pushing him into more whenever they lay in bed together at night. At one point, she'd begun to believe he might never make another attempt to be with her again.

But now, with him lying between her parted thighs and his thick, strong shaft filling her, every nerve in her body burned with the fire of a long-starved desire.

They had been married for a year now, and Belle had grown more experienced in bed than she had been in those early months. With a husband like Rohan, it was only natural, and in this moment, she used everything she had learned.

She lifted her hips to meet him, her body remembering his rhythm like a secret language only they understood, one they'd spoken a thousand times. She rocked into each deep thrust, guiding him with instinct, already knowing exactly where and how she wanted him, exactly what her body craved most.

"Rohan..." she moaned his name as she arched her back.

"I want to...oh, love … I want to see this … us…" He looked down at the place where their bodies were joined, where gold met fair, where male met female. He made a circular, grinding motion with his hips. It robbed Belle of breath. Her throat arched. But she couldn't close her eyes, even though the sublime ecstasy of it commanded her to.

Rohan rode her hard at first, a rush of pent-up need driving him. Then he slowed, rolling his hips deep, savoring the way her breath hitched with each press inside her.

His arms braced on either side of her, muscles straining with control. He kissed her swollen lips, biting at her mouth, trailing down to her throat, where he left dark love bites in his wake. He licked the soft curve of her shoulder, her chest, tasting her sweet, clean skin, still faintly scented with milk and something wholly feminine.

Once the frenzy began to ebb, he grew gentler, more reverent than playful. He gathered her long hair in his hands, draping it across his shoulder like silk. He stroked it, fisted it, kissed it, as though worshipping every inch of her.

His hands moved to her waist, then her hips, gripping her tightly as he thrust deeper, harder. She gasped, her thighs trembling, nails clawing at his back. Her moans broke against his ear, hot and desperate, urging him closer to the edge.

She came first, body arching, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a soundless cry as pleasure crashed over her. Her inner muscles clenched down around him so tightly that he couldn't hold back any longer.

With a broken groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came with her, his release shuddering out in thick, pulsing waves. He held her tight through it, face pressed to her neck, whispering her name like a prayer.

Their bodies stayed joined, damp with sweat and trembling, as the storm passed.

Rohan didn't move right away. He just lay there, still inside her, letting the weight of what they shared settle around them, this woman who had carried his child, this wife who still fit him perfectly, as though made only for him.

Still trying to calm down, Rohan felt her arms slip around him, her fingers stroking along his back in slow, soothing trails. Then they dipped boldly lower, gliding over the curve of his firm bottom.

The unexpected touch made him tense all over again, his shaft, still buried deep inside her, began to thicken once more in response.

When she gave him a teasing squeeze and rolled her hips against his, the friction sent a fresh bolt of heat straight through him. He groaned low into the crook of her neck, voice hoarse with renewed hunger.

"Pervert," he growled into her skin, but the accusation melted against her soft laugh.

He drew back just enough to see her smile, then caught her mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and heat.

Without a word, he began to move again.

He thrust into her slowly at first, deliberately, letting her feel every inch of him as he moved within her slick warmth. The rhythm built between them like a tide, strong and inevitable, until he was moving faster, harder, driving into her with raw, unfiltered need.

She clung to him, gasping, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he took her again, like he couldn't get enough of her, as though two months apart had starved him, just like it had starved her and made her want more.

Rohan loved her in utter silence, except for the labored breath they shared, the soft slap of skin on skin, and the broken moans torn from her throat.

Nothing else existed. Not the world. Not time. Only this room, this bed, her body beneath him, hot, wet, and seeking more of him with every thrust.

He made love to her until the sky began to lighten, until their sweat-slicked bodies were trembling with exhaustion, but still chasing one more wave of pleasure.

She smiled sleepily at him as he withdrew the final time, her lashes fluttering, skin glowing with the afterglow.

He kissed her, slow and deep, before finally collapsing beside her, spent, satisfied, and utterly at peace.

He slid his arm around her warm abdomen and spooned her back against him. Her shapely backside fit nicely against his hips, giving him ideas for next time.

He looked at his large, strong hand covering her slim waist, his arm brown against her white skin. Rohan would give her everything she wanted in life, everything so she'd never, ever want to leave.

As he listened to her soft breathing in her sleep and looked around the small bed and modest room, Rohan realized, for the first time in his life, that he was going to miss a place. He had never imagined he could live in such a small space and feel content with life. Yet here, in this quiet, tucked-away cottage, he had felt more at home than he ever had anywhere else.

He hadn't just brought Belle here to heal from the trauma she had endured, he had also come to prove something. To prove the demon who sired him wrong. That demon had told Rohan he could never be content unless he ruled. That ruling was in his blood. That he had been born to conquer.

But he wasn't born to rule, especially not the demon world.

Even though he couldn't deny that there were times he craved power, times he believed life only held meaning when he had the strength to dominate and control everything that moved and breathed, those urges had faded into the background. Because now, with this woman in his arms and his son sleeping nearby, Rohan had discovered a different kind of fulfillment.

A deeper kind.

Having a family of his own, someone to love, someone to protect, had proven to be just as satisfying, just as powerful, as any throne he had once thought of claiming.

What was the point of ruling if there was nothing you wanted to protect? What was the point of living an empty life, when his earliest dreams, before they'd been crushed by his mother's cruelty, had simply been to feel… and to live?

He hadn't felt truly alive until recently. And he surely had never felt more at home than he did right now.

As long as this woman stayed by his side, he would be content with life. He wouldn't hunger for more, nor would he be swayed by greed or the dark promises of the demon. His world belonged with Isabelle, and nothing that demon said could ever make him leave her or return to him.

The sooner they left this cottage and went to Aragonia so he could complete his findings and return, the sooner he could settle into their new life with ease.

Since he had already given his word, sealed in official documents, to the king, he was certain Zion would have no reason to plant spies in his home. Not unless he suspected Rohan of breaking the agreement. Maxwell would grow up there, and no one in Nightbrook would ever know of his existence. Rohan would make sure of that by hiding the boy's hair and identity. It would be a blessing if Maxwell didn't grow up to be his exact replica. It would be better if he had his own unique features, something that would keep him safe.

Rohan still didn't know how he could live under another man's rules and laws, but he had a feeling that this new family of his would give him the strength he needed. And in the past few months, his wife had already begun to heal him. The obsession to inflict pain, to kill without reason, no longer burned as fiercely as it once had.

The dawn of their departure had arrived, but Rohan wasn't ready to let go of this final embrace. Not yet. They could leave by evening.

By hell, he would miss everything about this place. The ache of it lodged like a lump in his throat.

He closed his eyes, buried his face deeper into his wife's neck, and pulled her even closer, as if he could somehow hold on to this moment, and everything it meant, for just a little longer.