50. Kanyan
50
KANYAN
T he weight of the night clings to us as we step inside, the door clicking shut behind us. The air is thick with unsaid words, with the tension of unfinished business. But I don’t want to think about Kadri. Not tonight. Not when I have her in my arms, warm and real, the one thing in my life that makes sense.
Lula’s eyes search mine, and I know what she needs—what we both need. A way to forget. A way to remind ourselves that we’re still here, still alive, still burning for each other. I drag my fingers down her arm, watching the way goosebumps rise in my wake.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, a slow smile playing at her lips.
“Can you blame me?” I step closer, my hands finding the dip of her waist, pulling her flush against me. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece.”
She laughs, a breathy, beautiful sound that shatters the heaviness in the room. But it’s short-lived. Because I tilt her chin up, brushing my lips against hers, teasing, tasting, taking my time.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, and I don’t miss the way her breath catches when I press her back against the wall. She needs this as much as I do—this moment, this connection, this escape.
I drag my mouth along the line of her jaw, down to the pulse at her throat. It beats fast. For me.
“Kanyan,” she whispers, tilting her head back as my hands explore, memorizing, claiming.
Her body is my wonderland. My canvas. My joy.
Tonight, nothing else exists. Not the past. Not the ghosts. Not the man rotting in a cell who should be buried six feet under.
The weight of everything lingers, but I refuse to let it touch her. Not tonight. Tonight, she’s mine to worship, to claim, to lose myself in.
I start with her coat, my fingers slow, deliberate as I slide it from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Next comes her sweater, my hands slipping beneath the fabric, fingertips skimming the delicate skin of her waist. She shivers, and I don’t know if it’s from the chill or the way my touch lingers. Either way, I don’t stop. I peel it from her body, watching the way her breath hitches as the material lifts over her head, revealing more of her to me.
There’s something intoxicating about undressing her like this, piece by piece, watching as her barriers fall away. By the time we reach the bedroom, there’s a trail of clothes behind us, a path leading to the only place I want to be. The bed. With her.
She stands before me, bathed in the low glow of the lamp, and for a second, I just take her in. Lula, stripped bare, looking at me like I’m something she’s willing to drown in. And fuck, I’ll let her. I’ll pull her under with me.
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs, a teasing lilt in her voice.
“You’re beautiful,” I counter, my voice rough.
She blushes. After everything, after all we’ve done, she still blushes.
I move toward her, hands framing her hips as I lower my mouth to her skin. I start at her ankle, kissing the delicate bone before dragging my lips up her calf, her thigh, her hip. I take my time, savoring her, tasting her, letting her feel every ounce of reverence I have for her.
By the time I reach her navel, her breath is unsteady. By the time I lick up the center of her stomach, she’s trembling. And when I finally claim her mouth, crashing my lips against hers, she melts into me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for this. Made for me.
I don’t stop. I don’t want to. My hands roam, exploring every curve, every inch of her that belongs to me. She presses closer, her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me deeper, harder.
When I finally break away, my breathing is ragged. I don’t want to be apart from her for even a second. I strip off my clothes, impatient now, and pull her with me onto the bed. Leaning against the headboard, I settle her onto my lap, my hands gripping her waist as she straddles me.
Her gaze locks onto mine, searching, questioning. I know what she’s looking for—the truth buried deep inside me, the thing I never say but always show. That she’s mine. That she’s everything.
“Kanyan,” she whispers.
I don’t let her say anything else. I lift her, positioning her exactly where she belongs. Then I pull her down onto me, claiming her in the only way I know how.
And for the rest of the night, I make damn sure she doesn’t forget where she belongs.
I wake her in the middle of the night. I take her, entering her slowly, nice and easy, pushing into her with long strokes, rocking back and forth until I feel myself lodged deep within her. Far enough to hit her walls. Deep enough to feel her soul.
She gasps, a soft, breathless sound that makes me harder, makes me hungrier. My hands grip her waist, holding her in place as I move, savoring the way she trembles beneath me. Her nails scrape against my back, her body arching, desperate to meet me stroke for stroke.
I press my lips to her throat, tasting the pulse that beats wildly beneath her skin. She’s warm, soft, perfect. She’s everything I didn’t know I needed, everything I almost lost.
“Lula,” I murmur against her skin, dragging my tongue along the curve of her shoulder. “You’re mine.”
She moans, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer, as if she can’t get enough. As if she doesn’t want this night to end.
Neither do I.
I pick up the pace, thrusting into her harder, deeper, until all I can hear is the sound of her gasps, her moans, the way she whispers my name like a prayer. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, memorizing the way she feels wrapped around me.
She shatters first, her body tightening around me, her breath catching as she falls apart. I follow seconds later, growling against her skin as I spill into her, marking her, claiming her.
I don’t let her go. I don’t think I ever will.
Lula is mine.
And I’ll spend every night proving it to her.