Chapter 13 Rhianelle #4
My pace stays slow. Agonizingly slow. I lift myself until only the tip remains, hold there long enough to watch his jaw clench and his chest heave, then slide back down in one smooth stroke that makes us both shudder.
My fingers grip his shoulders for balance.
The rhythm is entirely mine. I take only what I want and give nothing more.
His arms wrench against the bindings. The bedpost groans. I feel the vibration of it through my thighs but the shadows hold, and his hands stay bound to the post.
“Rhianelle.” My name sounds like it is being torn from his throat. “Let me touch you.”
“No.”
I take my pleasure from him the way he took it from me. Rolling my hips in slow circles, adjusting the angle until the pressure builds exactly where I need it. His body is mine to use now. Every clench of his jaw, every ragged breath, every involuntary twitch of his hips beneath me belongs to me.
The orgasm blooms low in my belly and spreads outward like warm water.
I press my forehead against his shoulder and let it take me, quiet and deep.
The pleasure becomes a long wave that pulls a soft moan from my lips.
My thighs tighten around him as my walls flutter and squeeze.
I feel him pulse inside me in response, fighting desperately not to follow.
I lift my head and look at him. Sweat tracks down his throat. The cords of his neck strain beneath the skin. His whole body trembles with restraint and his eyes behind the mask are wild, burning.
Something snaps.
The shadow vines shatter like glass. His hands close around my hips and the grip is iron.
I gasp as he lifts me and slams me down onto him so deep that the breath punches from my lungs.
There is no slow build, no teasing, no mercy.
His thrusts are relentless, driving up into me with a force that makes my vision blur.
My nails dig into his shoulders. I can’t breathe or think. I hold on and let him take what he needs. Every thrust hits that place deep inside me that makes the world dissolve.
His wings tear free from the last of the shadow bindings, dark membrane stretched taut over powerful bone.
The force of them unfurling lifts us both from the bedpost. For one weightless moment we are suspended in the air, his wings beating once, twice, holding us aloft while his body drives into mine.
He buries himself to the hilt and his wings flare wide, spanning the width of the bedroom. The sound he makes is low, broken and beautiful. I feel him pulse inside me. His forehead drops between my shoulder blades and we collapse together.
The bed catches us.
We land tangled in the dark fabric, his chest pressed against my back and his wings slowly folding around us.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. His breathing gradually slows against my neck. One arm rests heavily across my waist, warm and loose with exhaustion. I stare at the candles flickering against the far wall and try to gather the scattered pieces of myself.
I have nothing left. Even my voice feels ruined, scraped raw until every word hurts.
“I surrender,” I whisper.
He huffs a quiet laugh against my hair. It is softer than any sound he has made tonight. Tired and almost affectionate.
I roll over to face him.
He is still wearing the mask. Dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, but the rest of him has softened. The tension has left his jaw, and his mouth is parted slightly with exhaustion. He looks as spent as I feel.
I reach into the folds of my dress, or what remains of it, and find the ring. The Wiolant family ring.
“Here,” I say.
I take his hand. His fingers curl around mine, loose and warm. I slide the ring onto his finger.
I stare at the band resting against his skin. It sits perfectly on his finger, as though this is where it has always belonged.
“It fits you,” I whisper.
My fingers drift to the rattan ring. The simple braided band is warm against my skin. It rests around my finger as though it was woven for me alone.
“I’m keeping this one,” I say. “It’s mine.”
He is silent for a moment. Then his mouth curves. It’s not the faint almost-smile I have seen before or the predator’s grin from the chase. A real smile, small and unguarded. It is so tender that my chest aches.
“Of course,” he says softly. “It is yours.”
I smile back. The ache running through my body begins to fade into a deep, pleasant weariness. We lie facing each other among the tangled sheets, his hand resting against my hip and mine upon his chest. He is so close that I can see the individual lashes framing the dark eyes behind his mask.
The mask.
Dream after dream, encounter after encounter, I have never seen his face. I have been drawn to him in ways that shake me to my bones, yet I still do not know what lies beneath the carved darkness concealing the upper half of his face.
I reach for it.
He goes still.
My fingertips find the edge of the mask at his temple. Its surface is smooth and warm from his skin. I trace the rim down to where it meets his cheekbone.
In every other dream, he has stopped me.
This time, he does not move. He barely seems to breathe.
“Let me see,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine. Then he gives the faintest nod and slowly closes them.
I lift the mask.
It comes away easily, as though it has been waiting for this moment. I place it on the pillow beside us and look at the face beneath it.
My heart stops.
Not Landon.
There are no sharp fae features or warm amber eyes.
Nothing beneath the mask resembles the face I have imagined since the first dream.
I had convinced myself that the man haunting my sleep must be my mate, that the golden bond was somehow drawing us together across the distance between waking and dreams.
But this face is pale, framed by dark hair. The sharp cheekbones and familiar mouth belong to someone else.
Dark eyes slowly open and meet mine.
I know him.
The face staring back at me belongs to the vampire.
Arescaine.
The dream shatters.