Chapter 34 #2
I break the kiss, breathless and flushed, my lips swollen from the way he’s been devouring them. I stay pinned beneath him, my chest heaving, looking up into those dark, predatory eyes that are currently swirling with something far more tender than lust.
"Well?" I pant, a small, teasing smirk playing on my lips. "Do you actually like it, or was that just a way to get me into bed faster?"
Rhys doesn't answer immediately. He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look back at the canvas lying on the bed, then back to me. His expression is raw, completely stripped of the cold arrogance he shows the rest of the world. He looks... undone.
"Like it?" he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through my skin. "Ophelia, it’s fucking magnificent. I’ve never seen anything so hauntingly beautiful in my entire life that could come so close to you."
He reaches down, his fingers grazing the edge of the obsidian frame as if he’s afraid it might vanish.
"The way you’ve captured the garden... the darkness of it.
It’s not just a painting; it’s us. You didn't just paint our bodies, love; you painted the way we belong to each other. The thorns, the blood, the way I’m holding you... it’s the only truth I’ve ever known."
He looks at me then, his gaze intensifying, burning with a sincerity that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
"And the details," he continues, his voice thick with emotion.
"The scratch on my skin, the black flowers...
the fact that you saw the 'blue tears' and put them there.
You see every broken piece of me, every dark corner of my soul, and you didn't just accept it—you turned it into art. You gave me a mirror of our madness, and fuck, I love it. I love that you spent days hiding this from me, plotting this little surprise. It’s the most precious thing I own because it came from your mind, your hands... your soul."
I feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the heat of our bodies.
I can't help it; a genuine, soft smile spreads across my face. Seeing him like this—completely vulnerable, utterly devoted—is better than any thank-you I could have imagined. I’ve spent so long being the broken doll, but in his eyes, I’m a goddess of the dark.
"You're adorable, Castellan," I whisper, though I'm beaming.
He lets out a short, dark chuckle, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.
"Maybe. But I'm your adorable," he growls, his eyes darkening again as he pulls me closer. "This painting isn't going in a gallery, or some dusty museum, or the auction to land in some pervert’s home. It’s staying right here, in our bedroom, until we move with it to our new home and put it in our bedroom. I want it to be the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see before I fuck you into oblivion every single night. It’s our sanctuary, Ophelia. And now, we have the map to it."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his possessiveness returning in full force. He doesn't just want the painting anymore; he wants the woman who created it, and he's about to make sure I feel every inch of that desire.
He doesn't just pull me back into a kiss; he consumes me, but the hunger is different this time. It’s not that frantic, starving desperation that usually drives us to tear each other's clothes off like animals in heat. It’s deeper.
It’s heavy, like the air before a storm, thick with a kind of devotion that makes my chest ache.
I can feel the vibration of his heart hammering against my own, a rhythmic thrum that matches the pulsing between my thighs.
He breaks the kiss just an inch, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot and smelling of the wine we’d shared.
His eyes are dark, swirling with a tenderness that honestly scares the shit out of me.
I’m used to the madness, the possessiveness, the raw, unbridled lust—but this? This is something else entirely.
"Ophelia," he whispers, and the way he says my name sounds like a prayer. "My beautiful, broken girl."
He slides his hands down my back, his palms warm and steady, guiding me slowly.
There’s no rushing. No ripping of lace or bruising grips.
He treats me like I’m made of the finest porcelain, like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
He eases me back onto the sheets, his movements fluid and deliberate.
As he strips away the last of my clothes, he doesn't just look at me; he worships me. His gaze lingers on every scar, every curve, every mark he’s left on my skin and every one my father did.
He kisses my collarbone, then the hollow of my throat, his lips soft and lingering.
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
"Fuck, Rhys," I moan, my voice cracking. "You're making me go mental."
He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound in his chest, and moves down my body.
He kisses my stomach, his tongue tracing the line of my hip with an agonizing slowness that has me arching off the bed.
When he reaches the heat of me, he doesn't just dive in.
He teases me, his breath hot against my inner thighs, his fingers gently parting me.
He looks up at me, his eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, the world outside this room ceases to exist. There is no blood, no ghosts, no screaming memories of my sisters or the stench of my father's madness. There is only him.
"I love you," he murmurs, the words simple and devastating. "Not just the darkness in you, Ophelia. Not just the madness. I love you. All of you."
A sob catches in my throat. I’ve spent my whole life being a tool, a victim, a doll to be played with. But with Rhys, I feel seen. I feel known. I reach down, cupping his face, pulling him up so I can look into those predatory eyes that are now filled with nothing but pure, unadulterated love.
"I love you too, obsessive prick," I whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek. "So much."
He smiles, a genuine, soft expression that reaches his eyes, and then he moves over me.
He doesn't just thrust; he sinks into me, a slow, sliding entry that feels like two halves of a broken soul finally clicking back together. I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut as I feel him fill me completely. It’s not the jarring impact of a fuck; it’s a merging.
He stays still for a moment, buried deep inside me, his forehead pressed against mine. We just breathe together, our heartbeats syncing up in the silence of the room. I can feel every ridge of him, the heat of him, the way he’s trembling slightly, as if he’s fighting the urge to lose control.
Then, he begins to move.
It’s a slow, rhythmic dance. He pushes in deep, then pulls back until he’s almost gone, only to slide back in with a tenderness that makes me whimper.
Every movement is calculated to maximize the pleasure, to draw out the sensation until it’s almost unbearable.
It’s sensual, erotic, and so intimate that it feels like he’s touching my soul.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to absorb him into my very skin.
I can feel the friction, the wet heat, the way our bodies slide against each other in a perfect, seamless harmony.
I’m not just feeling him in my pussy; I’m feeling him in my chest, in my throat, in the very marrow of my bones.
"Look at me, love," he commands softly.
I open my eyes, seeing the raw intensity in his gaze. He’s watching me, tracking every flicker of pleasure on my face, every gasp that escapes my lips. He’s not just taking; he’s giving. He’s pouring everything he is into me—his protection, his obsession, his unwavering loyalty.
"You're mine," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Forever. In this life and whatever hell comes after."
"Yours," I moan, my voice a breathless wreck. "Always fucking yours."
The pace picks up, but it never loses that soulful quality. The slow grinds turn into passionate surges, the tenderness evolving into a desperate, loving need. I can feel the tension building, a coil tightening in the pit of my stomach, radiating outward to my fingertips and toes.
He begins to whisper things to me—promises of a future, of the home we're building, of the children we'll have, of a world where no one can ever hurt me again. Each word is like a caress, fueling the fire burning between us.
As the climax begins to crest, it doesn't hit like a crash; it washes over us like a tide.
I feel my internal muscles clench around him, milking him, as a wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy shatters me.
I cry out his name, my head tossing back against the pillows, my entire body vibrating with the force of it.
Rhys lets out a guttural groan, his muscles locking as he spills himself deep inside me, his body shuddering with the intensity of his own release. He collapses against me, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps.
We stay like that for a long time, entwined and sweating, the silence of the room filled only by the sound of our recovering breath. There is no rush to move, no need for words. I feel completely safe. I feel whole.
He shifts slightly, kissing my temple, his arm draped protectively over my waist.
"I've got you, Ophelia," he whispers. "I've always got you."
I close my eyes, drifting in the afterglow, knowing that no matter how dark the world gets, I have this. I have him. And fuck, I wouldn't trade this madness for anything in the world.