Chapter 38 Marcus
MARCUS
The second honeymoon.
Same place. Same suite. The same gilded walls and sweeping balcony, the same ocean sighing against the cliffs below.
But this time, it’s different.
This time, it isn’t a cage dressed up in silk and roses.
This time, it isn’t a performance for politics or peace.
This time, it’s us. It’s real because we chose it.
And the air tastes sweeter for it.
Checking in is almost surreal. Handing over papers without duty weighing us down, no council eyes burning holes in our backs. Just names, signatures, the easy kind of formality, and the thrum of anticipation.
We walk through the halls that once felt like a cage, yet tonight it’s different. Those same walls feel like a promise, like they’ve been remade simply because we’ve been remade. Every step is ours, not theirs. Every echo belongs to us.
Dinner is warm. Quiet. Not the silence of stone, but the hush of comfort.
The kind of silence where I can hear the hitch of his breath when he laughs, the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, the brush of his knee against mine under the table.
We trade stolen glances over the rims of wineglasses, laughter bubbling up so easily it almost startles me.
No masks. No games. No pretense. And for the first time, I realize I belong.
To want, without guilt gnawing at the edges.
Back at the hotel, Esmerelda excuses herself with a sly smile, eyes glinting like she’s keeping a secret just for me.
“I’ll be a few minutes,” she says, her voice low and playful.
That smile nearly brings me to my knees. I watch her disappear through the bedroom door, the sway of her hips deliberate, the faint echo of her laughter lingering in the hall. The sound curls through me, teasing, pulling.
I should sit. I should breathe. Instead, I stand rooted, every nerve alive with anticipation, every muscle tight with the knowledge that whatever she’s planning, it isn’t survival this time. It’s want. Pure, unashamed want. And it’s mine.
I wander into the master bedroom, a room I’d avoided like poison during our first honeymoon. Then, it had felt wrong. Hollow. Like stepping into a stage set for a play I wanted no part in.
But now… now, it feels different.
I breathe deep. The air holds the faint bite of polished wood and crisp linen, but beneath it lingers something sweeter, her perfume, clinging to the air, sinking into the very grain of the room. It hits me like a fist to the chest, sharp and aching.
This life. This love. This impossible second chance.
It’s more than I ever thought I’d have, more than I ever believed I deserved. And at times it terrifies me, because I know I’ll burn the world down before I let it slip away.
The bathroom door opens.
Esmerelda steps inside, and all I can do is stare. The world stops at the threshold with her.
She’s draped in lace and silk, bridal white against the warm glow of her golden skin. The fabric clings, teases, bares just enough to make my vision blur at the edges. Her cheeks are flushed, with something fiercer, bolder than nerves. A dare wrapped in vulnerability.
My heart stutters hard enough to hurt. My throat goes dry, useless. For all the blood and fire we’ve walked through, it’s this that undoes me: this woman, my wife, standing there like a vow made real.
And I realize I’ll never stop being undone by her. Not in a thousand lifetimes.
“Gods, Esme…” The words scrape out of me, roughly, reverently, like my throat isn’t built to hold them. My chest feels too tight, my pulse too loud.
“You’re… incredible.”
Her lips curve, shy and wicked at once, and it steals the last of my composure. Because she doesn’t even know—doesn’t realize—that incredible doesn’t begin to cover it. She isn’t just beautiful. She’s fire and granite and softness and survival all wrapped in lace, standing here like she chose me.
And gods help me, there’s nothing more devastating than that.
Her blush deepens, blooming high across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze locks on mine, steady, daring, her voice a velvet blade as she whispers, “Then show me.”
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. My control, my composure, everything I thought I’d hold onto, it shreds in an instant. My lungs seize, my blood surges hot, and for a heartbeat all I can do is drink her in—the lace, the flush of her skin, the defiance threaded through her nerves.
She’ll be the death of me. And I’ll go willingly.
I cross the room in a heartbeat, the space between us collapsing like it was never there. My arms lock around her, pulling her flush against me, and I kiss her like I might never stop, like stopping would be a sin I could never atone for.
She tastes of wine and fire, sweet and wild, and so fucking intoxicating.
Her lips are hungry against mine, demanding, desperate, every press a plea and a promise tangled together.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, clutching hard, as though even that thin barrier is unbearable, as though she needs me closer, always closer.
And I need her just as fiercely.
When I lower her on to the bed, I don’t rush. I can’t. My body screams to devour, to take, to lose myself in her, but I force it back. Because tonight isn’t about haste. Tonight isn’t about hunger.
Tonight, I want to worship her.
The sheets whisper under her as she sinks into them, lace clinging to her curves, hair fanning across the pillows like spilled fire. My chest aches just looking at her—my wife, my equal, my impossible miracle.
I brace my hand beside her head, drinking her in like she’s the first and last light I’ll ever see. “Esme… gods, I’ll spend forever proving it if I have to.”
I kiss her forehead. Her temple. The delicate slope of her cheekbone. The sharp, perfect line of her jaw. My mouth lingers, unhurried, as though I can carve each piece of her in my memory with lips alone.
Then I trail lower. The curve of her throat beckons, warm and vulnerable, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath my mouth. I savor it, each beat a promise that she’s here, alive.
Mine.
Her breath hitches, sweet and ragged, and her fingers slip into my hair. She tugs gently, not to push me away, but to keep me tethered. To guide me closer. To say, without words, yes—more.
And I intend to give her everything.
Every inch of her body receives my devotion. Her shoulders, kissed as if I can ease every burden she’s ever carried. Her collarbones, licked and nipped until her breath stutters, until I feel her tremble beneath me. The swell of her breasts, warm against my mouth. I worship them.
I worship her.
Her gasp rips through me when my tongue circles her nipple, sharp and unguarded, the kind of sound a man could live for.
The way her back arches when I scrape my teeth, just lightly, just enough, nearly undoes me.
She offers herself without hesitation, and I take my time, tasting every sound she makes, every shiver that shakes through her.
I’ve fought battles with less hunger than this.
I move lower still, down the soft plane of her stomach, pressing reverent kisses that make her muscles jump beneath my lips. I linger at her hips, savoring the way she shivers when my mouth brushes the sensitive skin there, then lower, down the length of her thighs, all the way to her knees.
My hands ease her legs apart, firm but gentle, and I press a kiss to the inside of one, then the other.
Slow. Teasing. Deliberate. Her breath stutters, catching high in her throat, and when I glance up, she’s trembling, her hands fisting in the sheets as though she can anchor herself against the storm I’m about to bring her.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“Marcus,” she pleads, voice ragged, torn straight from the depths of her.
Gods, my name has never sounded like that before—half desperation, half demand. It scrapes down my spine like fire, coils low in my gut until I’m shaking with the need to give her everything she’s asking for.
I look up, catch the wild edge in her eyes, the flush painting her skin, and I know I can’t hold back any longer. Teasing her now would be cruelty. Tonight isn’t about cruelty.
It’s about devotion. About showing her, in every way my body can, what my words could never contain.
I answer her with my mouth, with my tongue, with every ounce of patience I can summon. Every stroke is deliberate, every caress meant to unravel her, to make her feel exactly what she is to me—everything.
I worship her until she’s writhing, the sheets twisting under her fists, her cries tearing through the air like music meant only for me. She gasps, she begs, her body arching off the bed as wave after wave crashes through her, and still I don’t stop.
Not when her voice breaks.
Not when her legs tremble around me.
Not until I’ve given her everything she can take, again and again, until she’s boneless, undone, trembling from the force of it.
Only then do I lift my head, breath ragged, lips wet with her, and think—finally, finally—of taking her for myself.
Only then, when she’s boneless beneath me, glowing like the very gods lit her from within, does the worship shift. Reverence gives way to hunger, patience to wildfire.
I claim her mouth, her body, all of her, and she meets me with equal ferocity. No hesitation. No restraint. Just us, colliding, consuming, burning until there’s nothing left but heat and the sound of our hearts beating like war drums.
And we burn.