Chapter 39 - Fiery Frost #2
“If anything should happen to you, I will never forgive myself.”
“If anything should happen to me, it’s my own dumb fault in the first place, not yours.”
He cupped my cheeks, sorrow mapped within the hard lines of his face.
His eyes dipped to my lips as he leaned closer, pressing me against the wall.
This time when he kissed me, it was soft and questing, his fingers weaving into my hair.
There was tenderness to his touch as his hands traveled to my backside and lifted me from the ground.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, arching into him, savoring the hitch in his breath as his hands took my wrists over my head. The weight of his body was delicious as he kissed down my neck, the friction of his cock as he pinned me with his hips enough to rip a moan from my throat.
We’d been here before, at this moment of decision. This was where he’d stopped, fear of what his magic could do to me holding him back.
“Tell me you hate me,” he begged, his breathy voice in my ear sending an agonizing shiver down my spine, and I arched into him again and again. “Please. Please, tell me you hate me.”
“I can’t.” I squirmed in his grasp, wanting my hands free so I could pull him closer. Always closer. “I fucking want you so—”
He smothered my words with his mouth, claiming me with his tongue as his hands found the laces of my dress—frantic hands that seemed to know that whatever time we had was stolen.
That if Fate was indeed to blame for the way we felt, how cruel she was for bringing a broken elven prince and a worthless human slave together in the midst of our demise.
He pulled me from the wall, carrying me to the sofa where he lowered us slowly.
His hands—fuck, his hands. One crept over my stomach, marking each rib on its journey beneath my dress.
The other drew a desperate moan from my lips as it deftly ventured between my legs.
I was lost in the delicate softness of his touch before he pulled the mess of fabric that was my dress over my head.
And then his lips were on my neck, my chest, my breasts, ripping a desperate whimper from my throat as a hand clasped both my wrists and pressed them firmly into the sofa.
I knew he was strong, but now that he had me in his clutches, a wave of panic rushed through me.
How easily he could kill me. How easily he could take whatever he wanted.
It was a fleeting fear. I gasped as his tongue twisted around my peaked nipple, and I bucked against him, needing my hands loose.
Instead, he nibbled his way to my lips, fitting himself so perfectly against me. So perfect. He was so perfect.
“Callan.” My voice was a breathy demand.
“You should hate me,” he whispered against the skin of my neck.
The instant he released my wrists, I yanked at the laces on his pants, tugging at the material—the last barrier separating my body from his. But instead of giving me the opportunity, he pushed himself up and kneeled between my thighs.
Without letting his gaze leave my eyes, he slipped his pants down, and I could do nothing but admire the perfection of him.
Every tight, toned muscle. Every scar that mapped his past across his skin.
The lines at his waist stretching down to his...
I swallowed. He was fucking beautiful. The way his white hair pooled around his shoulders.
His strong arms. The pale violet of his eyes that never left me.
A. Fucking. Masterpiece.
His gaze roved over my nakedness on a languorous journey as he stroked himself.
I might have been embarrassed if he’d chosen that moment to hide behind his usual stoic mask.
Instead, he shook his head as his throat bobbed with emotion—an anguished longing in his eyes.
Slowly, he walked his hands on either side of me until he hovered above me, teasing the tip of his cock at my entrance.
“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I shook my head, cupping his face in my hands. “I want you, Callan.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “Every touch, every kiss, every scar. I want all of you.”
He gazed down at me, shaking his head slowly. “But, I could kill—”
Yanking his face to mine, I silenced him with my lips, devouring the words he might have said.
I didn’t care. Let him kill me if it meant this moment with him.
If it was Fate, lust, or weeks of longing that had gone unrequited, I didn’t care.
I wanted him. I was willing to traverse all Nine Hells if it was required of me.
I wanted to thaw his frozen heart. I would be the fire to his frost, the heat to his cold.
I gasped at the pressure—the stretch—with each thrust. A euphoric ache burned through me, kindled by the soft moans that escaped him.
There was no Wrenora, no Callan, only this moment as we found our rhythm.
Decadent pleasure became my entire reality as he rolled his hips over and over, his hands and lips hot where they claimed my skin.
We moved as one, like a reverent song building to a crescendo with each kiss, each touch.
A single focus held us captive as we shared breath, chasing pleasure together.
His rhythm changed as he struggled to maintain composure, but it only made me more frantic as he lifted my ass and tucked a knee beneath me.
“You feel...so...fucking good...” He whimpered into the crook of my neck as he thrust harder. “So fucking good.”
This was what I wanted. The ache of him buried deep within me. The sheen of sweat on his skin. His face in the throes of pleasure. No masks, no hidden emotions. The truth of who he was as he shattered.
I pushed him to his back, his shocked face drawing a grin to my lips as I straddled him, taking him deeper as I pushed myself upright.
“Fuck, Wrenora. This is too...” He bracketed my hips with his hands as he arched his back, his eyes rolling.
I was undone by the feel of him pulsing inside me as he came.
His name was the ballad on my lips, over and over again, frayed and gasping for air as waves of ecstasy reshaped my very existence with every thrust. I collapsed onto him, panting.
And still my hands needed to follow the shape of his arms to his shoulders, the curve of his neck, to rest over his sternum as his heart beat a ferocious rhythm beneath my fingers.
After a moment, he pulled my damp hair away from my face before trailing his gentle fingers over my back.
“My Wren,” he whispered.
“Yes, your Royal Broodiness?”
He gave me a soft grin before he kissed me, long and languid, decadently slow, causing my toes to curl. I savored the taste of him, the smell of sweat and sex and snow. A desperate ache settled in my chest. Though my body was satisfied for now, I still craved so much more of him.
“Will you go with me?”
“I think we established you can’t go without me.” I pushed myself up onto my elbows, leaning to kiss his nose as he gazed up at me. “In fact, I may have told Cassmira as much.”
“I knew it would only be a matter of time until the two of you plotted against me.” He traced along my hairline to my jaw then to my chin before he brushed his thumb over my lips. “Though I had hoped I could leave you here behind the ward where you’ll be safe.”
“The ward has let the wrong people through before though, hasn’t it?” I crossed an arm under my chin so I could rest my head but still gaze over at his peaceful face.
“It is infallible.”
“How was I able to come through it before?”
His eyes slipped closed. After a long silence where I realized he wasn’t going to answer, I slipped to the side of him and shivered as the cold air brushed over my sweaty skin.
With one hand, he reached over his head, pulling the blanket from where Fynn had been buried and jerked it over me.
He remained mostly uncovered, leaving me with a view of his naked body stretched out long, glorious ice-gray skin begging to be touched as he rolled toward me.
Pressing his face into my hair, he wrapped his arms over me and sighed deeply as he relaxed.
This was bliss. Something I hadn’t thought would ever be possible.
Not after being taken from the battlefield.
All the strange occurrences that led to this moment replayed through my mind, and I turned my head toward his.
Long white lashes rested on his cheeks like snowflakes.
The two scars down his face made the line of his jaw so much more enticing, and I leaned and pressed a kiss to his forehead, dragging my finger along that line and savoring the way he nuzzled closer.
For a moment, I thought it was snowing above us again.
But it was the frosty ripples of his magic shimmering in the air.
I had never noticed it looked like this before—like a mist made of the tiniest diamonds dancing in and out of the light.
It was so beautiful. He was beautiful. Truly beautiful inside and out.
How had I ever hated the cold when it could be so fucking beautiful?