5. Things Get A Tiny Bit More Out Of Hand #4
“What are you thinking about?” Kill'em murmured, dipping his head lower until his breath brushed my lips. It sent a wicked spark of heat straight down to my toes. “I—”
“Wait.” Before I did something ludicrous, like having a funny turn and climbing the man like a market post, I had questions to ask. I aimed a finger at his collarbone and adopted a stern, inquisitorial tone. “You, um, aren’t already married, are you? In your realm?”
“Negative.” He gave a low huff of amusement.
Boldness took over, pushing me to widen the scope of my interrogation. “And… do you have a lover there?”
He hesitated; I could tell by the sudden stillness that overtook his posture.
“I knew it,” I muttered. A sharp slash of irrational pain cut right through me.
“It’s not like you think,” he said quickly, pressing his palm gently over my cheek. “Lovers isn’t the right term, either. We were comrades, friends who passed the time to cheat boredom. And loneliness.” He shifted, as if uncomfortable. “But I haven’t sought him out since the dreams began.”
My fingers found their way into his hair, weaving through the silky strands and playing with them just as I used to do every night before.
“But if we’re having this conversation,” the commander said, “who’s Horacy Fergis?”
“What?”
“Who is he?” Kill’em insisted, a hint of steel in his voice. “That clerk said you invented a special matchstick just to ask him to dance. Was he that important?”
“Goddess, no. I mean… it was nothing more than a silly infatuation. Didn’t last more than a term.”
“How long is that?”
“About four months.”
“That’s long enough,” Kill’em said, his voice dropping as did my jaw. If I didn't know any better, I’d swear the mighty commander sounded somewhat… possessive?
I slid my hand down to the back of his neck, pulling him a fraction closer, the rising heat between us making my blood race. Tilting my chin up, I brushed my lips across his—a soft, deliberate invitation that made him stiffen. Everywhere, as I felt acutely through the thin fabric of his trousers.
The fact I got such a rapid, violent reaction out of him unmoored me. My pulse hammered.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmured, his breathing ragged. A sudden, rigid tension coiled into his frame. He resembled a predator ready to pounce, making me tremble. “I don’t want you to feel obliged to—how did the phrasing go? To anchor me.”
I snorted. “And if I want to anchor you? If I want it a lot? Then what?” The words tumbled out with out-of-character forwardness.
The next thing I knew, he rolled onto his back, dragging me up on top of him with that intoxicating combination of force and tenderness I always craved but never could get enough of in my dreams. The sudden shift of positions left me winded in the best possible way.
“Then by all means, have at it.” His smile had a wicked edge to it.
I pressed the heels of my palms on his hard chest, looking down at him through the gloom. “I missed you too. Every—every day. Really badly.”
Then, all the talking stopped. We moved at the same time.
He lifted his head to meet my mouth halfway. At once, the kiss turned rushed and messy. Rough, almost bruising—as though we both needed irrefutable sensory evidence to reassure ourselves this familiar reunion was real.
His tongue sliding over mine, the solidity of his toned body underneath me, his clean, fresh scent with warm woody depth—it all rendered me dizzy.
Starved for him. It felt just like I remembered, only so, so much better.
Richer, more vivid, more ardent. As if a veil had been lifted, granting me heightened, visceral perception and superior sentience.
The dream land held nothing on the heat of his skin beneath my hands and the softness of his lips.
Time stopped. Nothing mattered. All my hesitation and inhibitions had vanished, leaving in their wake a raw, uncomplicated desire to be with him and please him.
Every sense caught fire as we stripped away the linen boundaries between us, sinking into the night as one.
Ke?lhem
Ihad spent my entire adult life honing my discipline and learning how to survive an onslaught.
I knew how to steady my breathing under pressure, how to brace against a physical force.
None of it proved useful with a naked Elian straddling my thighs.
Within five heartbeats, he had made a quiet, devastating wreckage of my composure.
He moved over me with a slow, deliberate grace that caught the breath hard in my throat.
I cursed myself for not lighting a lamp beforehand, though the low light still left me plenty to admire—the pale, soft curve of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the clean lines of his abdomen.
The mere sight of him threatened to undo me.
But when he sank down, drawing me into his heat, my fingers locked into his hips with feral urgency.
I couldn’t strangle the low, desperate growl that tore from my chest.
The sensation was scintillating—too real, too intense to withstand or resist. Too much, yet not enough.
Elian moved faster, finding a tight, perfect rhythm drawing my hips up to meet his. He threw his head back, dark hair falling away from his face as a helpless gasp escaped his parted lips.
“Ke?lhem,” he breathed.
The ragged, broken whisper shattered the last chink in my armour.
Every scrap of the control I’d carried across dimensions dissolved under the friction of Elian riding the edge of pleasure above me—the distance between us non-existent.
He was dangerous to me in a way no blade could match, able to rob me of my focus and my hard-won self-regulation.
It felt both thrilling and frightening, allowing myself to be reduced to raw emotions and pure physical sensation.
Letting him see me in that helpless, vulnerable state.
I couldn't think. I couldn't strategise.
I could just savour the overwhelming pull of the moment, falling into a chaotic, intoxicating depth, where his presence served as my only anchor.