The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Aria’s POV

The shower steam was still a warm ghost on my skin as I lay beside Damian in the darkness. His breathing was steady. Too steady. The kind of steady that meant he was just as awake as I was.

My thighs pressed together beneath the sheets.

I ached.

Not the soft, distant kind of want—the kind that had been building since the shower, since the way his hands had lingered on my hips under the spray, since the way his mouth had almost—almost—found mine before he pulled back with that infuriating smirk.

Now I was wet. Soaking through silk. My clit throbbed with every heartbeat, swollen and neglected, and my cunt clenched around nothing, empty and hungry and needing.

"...Damian?" My voice came out thinner than I meant it to. "Are you asleep?"

Silence. Those stupid, beautiful lashes didn’t even flutter.

I reached out, my fingertip hovering just above the dark sweep of them—

His eyes opened.

Grey. Completely alert. No trace of sleep. He’d been awake the whole time.

The bastard had probably been listening to my heart race, or scenting the arousal pooling between my legs, or whatever it was his wolf let him do.

"What?"

One word. Low. A rumble that vibrated straight through the mattress and into the soaked heat between my thighs. I clenched. Hard.

"I..." Heat flooded my cheeks. "I wanted to count your lashes."

His mouth curved. Slow. Predatory. "Count my lashes?" He savored each syllable, his voice dropping into something darker, something that made my stomach flip and drop.

"Why stop there? There’s a whole lot more of me you could be... examining."

The way he said examining—like it was a threat and a promise rolled into one—made slick heat pulse out of me. I felt it.

The wet slide of my thighs under the sheets. The way my body was already preparing for him, softening, opening, wanting.

He could probably smell it.

Before I could pull my hand back, his fingers wrapped around my wrist. One tug and I was against his chest, the heat of his bare skin bleeding through the thin silk of my nightgown.

My nipples peaked instantly, scraping against the fabric, and the friction made me bite my lip hard enough to hurt.

"I’m heading out next week," he murmured into my ear. His breath was hot. So hot. "Business trip. About a week."

My chest squeezed. A week. Seven days without him. Without this.

The thought made my cunt clench again—a desperate, involuntary spasm—and I pressed my thighs together, trying to hide it, trying to pretend I wasn’t already dripping.

"When I get back," his hand slid down my spine, fingers pressing into the small of my back, possessive and sure, "we’re doing the wedding. No more delays."

He rolled his hips. Just barely. Just enough.

The hard ridge of him pressed against my stomach through silk, and I felt how thick he was. Already half-hard. Already hot enough to burn through both layers of fabric.

"And then I’m going to Mark you properly," he continued, his voice rough with barely restrained hunger.

"Claim you in front of everyone. Make it so fucking clear who you belong to that no one will ever question it again."

The weight of what he was saying settled over me. The Mark—it wasn’t just symbolic in the werewolf world. It was permanent, binding, a declaration of ownership that went bone-deep. Once he Marked me, every wolf within scenting distance would know I was taken. His.

"Okay," I whispered, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could feel it against his chest.

For a moment we just lay there, the tension coiling tighter and tighter between us. His hand moved from my back to cup my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip with deliberate slowness.

I parted my lips without thinking, and he pushed inside—just the tip—pressing down on my tongue.

I sucked. Instinctive. Hungry. My tongue curled around him, wet and wanting, and I watched his jaw go tight.

The sound he made was barely human.

I didn’t care.

"Show me," I said around his thumb, my voice breaking. "Don’t hold back. Don’t you dare hold back."

Something dark moved behind his eyes.

---

I was on my back before I could blink, Damian braced above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress like I was something to be pinned and kept.

His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, baring my throat.

His mouth crashed into mine.

The kiss was bruising. His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming, and I moaned into him as his hand slid down my body.

Over my collarbone. Over my breast—his palm grinding against the aching peak until I arched into him, desperate for more.

Lower. Skimming down my stomach, making every muscle jump and flutter beneath his touch.

Then his fingers reached the hem of my nightgown.

He didn’t push it up.

He ripped it.

The sound of tearing silk split the air—obscene and sharp—and cool air hit my skin for exactly one heartbeat before his hand was between my thighs, cupping my bare cunt, his fingers sliding through slick heat that had already soaked through to my inner thighs.

"Fuck."

His voice cracked. His forehead dropped to mine, his breath ragged and hot against my lips.

I was mortifyingly wet. Soaked. The kind of wet that made sounds—a slick, obscene squelch as his fingers parted my folds and found my entrance.

"How long?" His voice was wrecked. His fingers circled my clit—not pressing, just teasing, just tracing the swollen bud with feather-light strokes that made me want to scream.

"How long have you been like this?"

"Since—" I couldn’t think. His fingers dipped lower, sliding through the mess I’d made of myself, pressing just barely inside before pulling back out.

"Since the shower. Since you looked at me in the—ah—"

He pushed two fingers inside me.

No warning. Just the thick, sudden stretch of being filled, his fingers curling, finding—

"There."

The word ripped out of me.

My back arched clean off the bed, and he followed me down, his thumb finally—finally—pressing against my clit while his fingers stroked that devastating spot inside me.

Over and over.

The pleasure coiled tight in my belly, hot and fast, building with every stroke of his fingers.

My hips rocked into his hand, shameless, chasing the pressure, the fullness, the rhythm that was going to break me apart—

He pulled his fingers out.