Chapter 42 Tamsin
Tamsin
Marienne’s lips are soft. Certain.
I forget the pain.
Not entirely—my ribs still ache, my arm protests—but everything dulls beneath the press of her mouth. The warmth of her. The way she tastes like tea and defiance. Like something worth staying for.
I’ve been kissed before. Clumsy, hungry things.
But never like this.
This is not a request. It’s not a conquest. It’s not even a question.
It’s a homecoming.
“My flower…” I murmur against her lips.
When she pulls back, her breath catches on mine. Her eyes are wide, searching, glowing faintly in the firelight.
I want to tell her she’s a miracle.
Instead, I say, “If you keep doing that, I’m going to forget I’m injured.”
She laughs, quiet and delighted, and brushes a loose strand of hair from my brow. “Would you like me to stop?”
“Gods, no.” My voice is rough. “Just… don’t expect me to be charming about it.”
Her smile could bring me to my knees. “You’re charming in your own way. And still devastating,” she says lightly, fingertips trailing down the edge of my jaw. “Imagine what you’ll be like at full strength.”
I catch her hand, press it to my chest.
“You terrify me,” I whisper. It slips out before I can catch it. “In the best way.”
Marienne’s smile softens. “Because I make you feel something?”
I nod. Once. Honest.
She leans in again, lips ghosting against mine. “Then feel it,” she whispers.
And I do.
I kiss her like I’ve been waiting to—slow, reverent, full of all the things I’ve never said aloud. My good arm circles her waist, pulling her closer, until she’s almost in my lap and the blanket is a forgotten barrier between us.
Her hands thread into my hair.
My breath hitches.
Her thigh brushes mine and I forget how to think.
The fire pops. The wind sighs at the window. The pain hums beneath my skin, but she burns brighter. Fiercer. Closer.
When she finally pulls back, I’m breathless.
She touches my cheek. “You should lie down.”
“I should kiss you again.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You should lie down and let me spoil you.”
There’s a mischievous note to her voice—light, teasing—but the meaning behind it is clear.
It hums beneath my skin like struck flint.
Heat pools low in my belly. Not sudden. Not overwhelming. Just… inevitable. A slow burn I’ve tried not to name, now impossible to ignore. She’s leaning over me like a benediction, and gods, all I want is more.
I ease back against the pillows, never taking my eyes off her. “Spoil away, then.”
She leans down—not kissing me, not yet—but her breath brushes my mouth, her fingers lingering at the edge of the blanket like she’s holding herself back.
This woman, I think. This impossible, radiant woman.
I would die to protect her.
And maybe—for once—I’m allowed to live for her, too.
“You don’t have to be careful,” I murmur, voice low and rough. “I’m yours. I trust you.”
Marienne folds the blanket back with quiet care, revealing the linen undershirt she helped me into earlier, the one that still clings in places to the heat of healing skin.
Her hands move slowly. When she unties the laces at the neckline and brushes it aside, I feel more exposed than if I were fully bare.
She sees all of me. The bruises. The bandages. The scar that cleaves my brow.
And she doesn't flinch.
Her lips trail the line of my collarbone, then lower—soft as silk, sure as breath. Her hands remain steady as they explore the angles of my waist, the curve of my ribs. I feel her mouth pause just below the hollow of my throat, and when I whisper her name, she answers it with a kiss that sears.
“I want you,” she breathes. “But not if it hurts.”
“It only hurts when you stop,” I rasp, and gods help me, I mean it.
She chuckles—soft, delighted—and presses another kiss just above my bandaged arm.
Then, with a smile curling like moonlight at the corner of her mouth, she murmurs, “Well, I did say I’d spoil you.”
Her hair spills forward, a copper-streaked canopy around our faces, and the rest of the world goes quiet beneath it. Just her… glowing in firelight, lips kiss-bitten, the smallest glint of fang at her smile.
It knocks the breath from me—how can anyone be so radiant?
Her thigh presses between mine and the heat of her settles over me. My breath stutters. The blanket is forgotten. My pulse is not.
She leans down again, eyes locked with mine, her mouth finding mine with a kind of aching need that burns through every inch of restraint I have left.
I pull her closer, good arm firm around her back. The heat between us builds, slow and inevitable, like moonlight creeping across a bed.
“Marienne.” I whisper her name again—not because I need her attention, but because I need her to know it’s her. Always her.
Marienne is a melody I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hum.
She smiles against my throat before I feel the first brush of her lips there—slow, deliberate, tracing a path downward.
The scrape of her teeth, the sweep of her breath.
My body tightens beneath her as her hands slip beneath my shirt.
Her fingers are cool at first, then burn trails into me as they move higher.
I’ve been touched before. Casual, practiced things. But usually, I’m the one who gives pleasure. I’m not accustomed to being on the receiving end.
I let her take her time. Let her spoil me.
When her palms find my ribs and begin to slide upward, the heat of her touch brands me. By the time she cups my breast, my breath catches and my hand clenches at her hip, grounding myself.
She glances up through her lashes; her expression softens, then darkens with something that makes my pulse stumble. Something hungry.
And then she leans in. Her mouth closes over my nipple, tongue teasing it in slow, deliberate circles before she sucks, pulling a low, broken moan from deep in my chest. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s helpless.
Heat blooms through my belly, heavy and sweet, but it spikes higher—sharper—when I feel the graze of her fangs. A flash of pain, just enough to make me gasp. Not fear. Not even discomfort. Something darker, more intimate. A shock of closeness that goes bone-deep.
My hand flies to the back of her head, holding her there. Needing her. Needing more.
She stills, eyes flicking up to mine, searching.
And what she finds there must be answer enough, because she doesn’t pull away.
Her fangs press in again, sinking into the soft swell of my breast. A sharp pulse, then the warm, languid tug as she drinks, not greedily, but intimately.
Her moan vibrates against my skin as her hips begin to move, rocking slowly against my thigh.
The bunch of her skirts only adds to the friction, the filthy sweetness of it. Her breath catches.
Gods. She’s unraveling. Against me.
The heat between us pulses, impossible to ignore. I reach for her—instinct, desire—but her hand catches mine. Firm. Intentional. She pins it gently above my head and leans up, eyes heavy-lidded.
“Apologies,” she murmurs, flushed. “I got carried away.”
And then, wicked and tender all at once, she adds, “But it’s your turn now.”
Her kisses begin to trail lower, down the center of my body. Across the curve of my waist, the dip of my navel, the muscle beneath. Each press of her lips is reverent and slow, as if she’s learning me by heart, worshipping me with every inch of her mouth.
My body arches toward her without thinking. My thighs part when her hands slide between them, and her touch—gods, her touch—is confident. Certain. She strips away what’s left of the barrier between us with a few efficient motions, baring me fully.
Cool air grazes my wetness, but I’m already trembling from the heat. From need.
She leans in.
Her mouth finds the inside of my thigh first, lips brushing fire over sensitive skin. The kiss deepens, then moves higher. And higher.
Each touch of her lips is an invitation.
Each pause—exquisite torture.
And her voice, low and ruined, murmurs against me, “My hearth.”
When I look down, her eyes meet mine… dark and glassy with want, lips wet and glistening in the firelight.
The sight steals my breath; the way she looks at me steals everything else.
She moves higher, finally, and her mouth claims me.
Not shyly. Not teasing.
She licks me with reverent greed, sucking gently at my clit, then flattening her tongue to draw long, aching strokes through my folds. I cry out—sharp, high, utterly unguarded.
My hand fists in her hair, tangling in the silky strands, holding her there.
Her rhythm builds—no longer just worship. This is hunger. This is knowing. She parts me with her tongue, teasing and coaxing until my hips lift to meet her. Until I’m grinding helplessly against her mouth, slick and soaking, every part of me alive and throbbing.
And then—she stops.
The absence is brutal. My hips chase her. I whimper, desperate for more.
But her fingers replace her mouth—slow at first, almost cruel in their care. They stroke between my folds, slick with my arousal, before finding my clit.
All while, her mouth presses another kiss to my thigh. Then a bite as fangs slide in. The sting makes my toes curl.
Her lips return to the mark, kissing it tenderly.
Her name leaves me in a whisper.
Her thumb brushes my clit. I shudder. I swear. Then her mouth is back instead, licking, sucking, claiming, and everything goes molten.
The knot in my belly tightens, tightens—
And then it breaks.
The climax hits like a storm: sharp, wet, all-consuming. My vision whites out. My whole body pulses, every muscle tight, then loose, then shaking.
Her name is all I know.
Her name is all I can say.
“Marienne… My flower…” I whisper, hoarse with everything I can’t say aloud.
Marienne hums, low and warm, and lifts her head just enough to kiss the inside of my thigh again—gentle this time, reverent.
“I’m here,” she murmurs.
She crawls up the length of me and curls into my good side, tucking herself beneath my arm like she’s always belonged there. Her fingers trace lazy shapes across my ribs. Our legs tangle, bare skin on bare skin.
“Stay,” I beg, sleep already pulling at the edges of me as I nuzzle against her crown.
“Always,” she murmurs.
Her hand finds mine beneath the blanket, our fingers twining easily.
Outside, the wind brushes soft against the windowpane.
Inside, it’s warm. Safe.
And she's mine.