Devon
Kazimir rolled me onto my back like I weighed nothing, like I were something he’d been built to hold, and the mattress cupped my spine as if the bed wanted in on the worship, too.
Cool lips mapped the hinge of my jaw and the column of my throat; I felt the promise of him hovering, the breath of an old world exhale over the spot where my pulse threw itself against my skin.
My body went still the way prey goes still—only I wasn’t afraid. I was starving.
His hair slipped forward like spilled midnight as he paused over that small, traitorous throb. His mouth didn’t touch, not yet. He breathed me in, and the sound he made was quiet and wrecked. The world narrowed to the point of his restraint.
He lifted his head. Those pale eyes caught me—focused and almost tender, with the edge of a storm waiting to break. “I want to taste you,” he said, accent curling around the words. “I believe it will seal what we already feel.”
My yes rose from somewhere older than my name. “Please.” The word surprised me—soft, open, sure. Not obedience. Agreement. It slid into the air like a key into the right lock.
He kissed me instead of biting. Mouth to mouth, firm and patient until I parted for him and forgot why I’d ever needed air.
He took his time: his tongue learning me, his hand at my jaw angling me for each deeper pass.
I felt dizzy with it, not like falling, but like finding gravity again after months of floating.
When he broke the kiss, he did it only to worship me more thoroughly.
His mouth trailed down, the path of a pilgrim.
He gave each clavicle a wet, claiming kiss and then descended to where my breasts lifted, flushed with heat.
He cupped both in those hands meant for violence and reverence together; the contrast stealing my breath.
His thumbs teased my nipples until they tightened under the lightest pressure, and then his mouth closed around one.
The sound that tore up my throat was embarrassingly loud. He swallowed it like a good omen.
His tongue drew circles that were not quite symmetrical, because perfection would have been cruel.
He used just enough teeth to make my nerves sing, then soothed me with soft suction until I was arching into him, needing more of a thing I hadn’t known to ask for.
I curled my fingers into his hair, holding him there like he might forget what I was made for.
“I won’t break,” I heard myself say. It came out a dare.
“I know,” he murmured against my skin, words vibrating straight into my chest.
He shifted his attention to the other breast, his palm kneading the first, the two sensations talking to each other across my ribs.
Heat puddled low in me. My thighs rubbed together of their own accord, na?ve and shameless.
He noticed; of course he did. One hand slid down my side, fingers counting ribs, tracing the curve of my waist, memorizing the place I bit my lip.
By the time his mouth left my breasts, I was trembling.
He kissed a line down my sternum, lower, tasting the dip of my navel as if it mattered as much as my mouth.
He didn’t skip the bones; he gave my hip a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made me jolt.
Everything that had ever felt like absence in me started filling with a slow, bright tide.
He settled between my thighs with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner.
His hands urged my knees wider, and I obeyed without thinking, breath stuttering as cool air kissed heat.
He took a second to look at me. Really look.
The kind of gaze that could have been clinical in someone else. In him, it was devotion.
“I’ve never been seen like this,” I confessed. It hurt and healed at the same time.
“You have always deserved to be seen,” he said, and lowered his mouth.
The first lick was slow and deliberate. Not a test. A claim. My hips leaped up, seeking more without permission from my brain. He anchored me with one broad palm on my lower belly, and the weight of it grounded me to the bed, to him, to now.
I didn’t know what my sounds would be until they were already in the room.
Little gasps turned into broken words turned into something like prayer.
He found my clit and drew it into his mouth with gentle suction, then released it to flick with the tip of his tongue until I actually whined.
He laughed, dark and pleased, the breath of it ghosting over me.
“More,” I said, shocking myself with how greedy I sounded. “Kazimir, more.”
He gave me a slow stroke with two fingers over where I was slick and open, and then he pressed inside.
Not a tease. Two fingers, thick, curling as if he’d known me forever.
My body clutched at him in welcome. He used his thumb to keep steady pressure on my clit while he set a careful rhythm inside me—press, curl, retreat, repeat—searching for the angle that would break me open.
The moment he found it, I cried out; the sound cracking around his name.
“Good,” he said, low, like we were alone in a cathedral. “Again.”
He held me down with that cool hand and worked me like he was coaxing truth from me, and oh, I gave it.
I couldn’t keep still; my hips bucked, chasing the friction, trying to take his fingers deeper.
He let me, meeting me thrust for thrust with his hand and his mouth, letting me ride his face.
Every now and then, he pulled back just enough to breathe and look up at me, lips slick, eyes wild. I felt powerful and ruined at once.
“Please,” I panted. “Please don’t stop. Don’t—”
“I will not stop,” he promised, and fastened his mouth to me again like he meant to live there.
Pleasure gathered the way thunderstorms gathered in July—slow, rumbling, inevitable.
It built in layers: the steady pressure of his thumb; the firm, rhythmic stroke of his fingers against that inner place that felt like a switch; the warm, wet glide of his tongue playing me higher.
My scalp prickled; my hands clawed the sheets; my thighs trembled on either side of his head.
I didn’t know where to put the wanting, so it spilled out of me in nonsense and endearments and filthy little requests that would have made six-months-ago me blush to death.
He answered every one with devotion.
When I started to fall apart, he felt it before I did. He adjusted the angle of his fingers just a fraction and sealed his mouth around my clit with purposeful suction. My body jerked as if he’d pulled a string hidden under my skin.
“Let go, malen’kaya,” he crooned against me. “Come for me.”
I broke. It wasn’t a pretty thing. It was a shattering, a burning line whipping up my spine and down my thighs.
I seized around his fingers; my vision went to bright static; I heard my own voice like it came from very far away.
Something in the house answered—the lights beyond the door stuttered and dimmed, then flared before settling, as if the mansion itself took a gasping breath with me.
Oh, God.
He kept me there, at that too-much edge, for three, four, five heartbeats, mouth unrelenting, fingers a steady pulse against that place that no one had ever touched before.
The rush crashed over me, then again, smaller.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.
My thighs shook around his head; my stomach fluttered with aftershocks I couldn’t ride or refuse.
Only when I went from breaking to broken-open did he ease me down, softening his mouth to feather-light licks that eased the ache from unbearable to sweet. His fingers gentled inside me and then slipped free, leaving an echoing emptiness that promised a better kind of fullness.
I lay there, panting, throat sore from sounds I barely remembered making, the inside of my thighs damp and hot.
He kissed the soft place at the top of my inner thigh like a thank-you, then followed the route he’d mapped earlier, this time in reverse—hip, belly, ribs—slow enough that I could keep up.
By the time he reached my mouth, my hands were already in his hair, dragging him down. I tasted myself on his tongue—salt and heat and something I couldn’t name—and it didn’t embarrass me. It thrilled me. I kissed him like a promise and a consequence.
He hovered over me, his weight held in check by muscles I could feel bunching in his shoulders. I dragged him closer by his hips until his cool, hard length pressed against my belly and both of us made that same helpless sound.
I was still floating on the wreckage of my own pleasure when he pulled back to speak, breath hitching against my cheek. But that was another storm coming. For now, I was just light, scattered everywhere, and he was gathering me with his mouth.
He didn’t climb off me right away. He caged me there in the quiet way a hand cupped a flame in the wind, and the praise he poured into my ear wasn’t the kind I’d learned to distrust—it wasn’t a transaction.
It was observation, devotion edged with awe, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d been allowed to keep.
“You were… exquisite,” he said, voice gone rough. “The way you came—such light in you. Brave little angel. You stood in front of a monster and said yes. No one will make you stand alone again. Not while I breathe. Not while I do not.”
Something small and feral in me laid down at those words, not because it was conquered, but because it had finally been offered somewhere safe to sleep.
I turned his face with my hands and kissed him once, softly, gratefully.
Then I slid my palms down over the hard cut of his chest—the texture of ancient scars under my fingertips—and lower, to where he was heavy against my belly.
He made a sound that hadn’t belonged to a king in centuries.
It belonged to something caged that had decided to be tame for me and me alone.