Exiled (A Madame X Novel)

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Book: Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Read Free
Author: Jasinda Wilder
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truth. It is Jakob who lifts me off my feet, carries me to my bed. Lays me down.
    Who kisses me,
    and kisses me,
    and kisses me . . .
    It is Jakob.
    And God, Jakob is something I cannot resist. Caleb’s power, skill, and relentless hunger, but with a tenderness and vulnerability only Jakob could possess. Confusion and hatred and loathing and disgust boil in some secret cauldron within my soul, but Jakob’s fiery touch sears it away. I know this touch. It knows me. Knows my body, knows how to bring me to writhing need with but a whisper of a fingertip against me, just so.
    Jakob, Caleb, the names tangle. The vulnerability in your eyes is at war with shadows. Violence is an oil slick across the gentility in your features.
    Fuck, I am lost. I am drowning.
    You stare down at me, and you let me see something in you. Some hint of a soul. And it is a soul at war. A soul in pain. You kiss me with that pain, and it is jagged. Your breath is rough and ragged as you lave kisses over my breasts. As you finger my opening and drive me to moans as only you can. You drag a thick finger through my wetness and caress me to orgasm, and you kiss me as I whimper. While you are kissing me, while I am whimpering and clenching and writhing and shaking, you thrust your hips, and you enter me. And when your hip bones clash against mine, you break the kiss and you fix your embattled, pain-racked eyes on mine. Your eyes do notleave me as you push into me. Do not leave mine as you withdraw. Your face takes on the expression of a man in utter agony. As if you are ripping away a mask surgically implanted in your skin. As if you are ripping open your soul and letting me see the gaping wounds life has left in you.
    You make love to me as if it hurts to do so. As if the pleasure of being inside me is too much, and thus is pain. Exquisite torment. An agony of ecstasy. That term is much bandied about, but when it really occurs—a true agony of ecstasy—the reality of it is hellish to witness. Such overpowering bliss it is an overload. A too-long hit of pure oxygen to dying lungs. A feast of rich food on an empty, starving stomach.
    Your hips piston against mine. You are levered over me, staring down at me as you drive in and out of me like a madman, like a man possessed. I hold on to you and try to pierce the wildness in your eyes, try to see into you, try to catch some glimpse of who you are and why you’re doing this, what it means.
    You moan, brokenly. Tortured groans. Your manic, fucking thrusts falter with intensity, and you release inside me. You are not blinking, not even breathing now, thrust deep, spasming. Hips fluttering.
    A groan escapes you. The sound of a shredded soul.
    Your forehead lowers to mine.
    You are gasping, each outbreath a grunt, a moan, a groan.
    “Isabel.” That whisper again.
    As if my name is an incantation. A prayer to an unknown god.
    A time without measure, seconds, minutes. I do not know.
    And then you lift your head, seek my eyes. Looking for something.
    “Caleb?”
    You flinch as if struck. Shudder.
    And then
    you
    kiss
    me.
    Slow. Deep. Sweetly, even.
    You touch my face. My cheek. Fingertips fluttering over my eyelids, tracing the contour of my nose. Memorizing.
    You pull away, and look at me once more.
    And then I watch as the mask clicks into place. I can almost hear the
clink-snick
of the armor plates touching and fusing.
    And I wonder . . .
    Did I speak the wrong name?

THREE
    Y ou roll off me, slide off the bed with slow, languid, lithe movements. Stand up, move to the doorway. You are silhouetted. Thick thighs. Taut calves. Round, iron-hard buttocks. Back a rippling field of muscle. Broad shoulders, brawny biceps cut from living marble as if by Michelangelo’s very hand. You clutch the doorpost, sagging for a moment as if weak. Turn your head slightly, almost but not quite looking at me. Face in profile.
    I think you are about to speak. You even open your mouth, but then . . . you straighten. Iron

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