Chapter 8
Lucina
“Okay with me?” Callan mocks, finding his voice.
I follow his eyes as they drop to his lap, past the hard ridges of his torso. With steady fingers, he pulls on the string tying his pants, freeing exactly what the thin fabric had been hiding—or trying to hide.
“What do you think?”
I think I fucked up.
But I don’t let that show on my face. That would be too satisfying for him. Instead, I’m greedy with how long my eyes linger, my breath coming out short and shallow. My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, and Callan curses.
“Fuck, Lucina.” His eyes shut, one hand digging into the armrest and the other curling around the base of his erection. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I know.”
My fingers circle his wrist, gently pulling his hand away to replace it with mine instead. At the touch, Callan’s lips part. His breathing deepens when I stroke the length of him once, taking my sweet time doing so.
I explore him unhurried, soaking in what I’d been so curious about. His big—I figured he’d be. But sometimes men with his kind of confidence are overcompensating.
Callan might have been under-compensating.
I stroke him again, and he hisses through his next breath, hips shifting slightly in the chair.
“Lucina.”
It almost sounds like a reprimand.
I lean forward and drag my tongue along the path my hands took. Blood rushes to my ears, my pulse beating throughout my entire body, and it only gets worse when he groans, shifting in his seat to get closer.
His eagerness spurs me on.
More confident now, I take him fully into my mouth. Reveling in the way he swells against my lips. Callan’s thumb slides up under my jaw, his grip tightening as I take the inches that will fit all the way to the back of my throat.
“Shit,” he exhales, more of a gasp than a breath, and if I could smile, I would.
I find my rhythm quickly, setting a pace I can tell he likes, and then I back off again. Stroking, teasing, drawing it out as long as I can.
Callan mutters every curse word in the book, his grip on my jaw tightening, but he never forces me father than I decide. Instead, he restrains himself, biceps bulging and lower abs flexing.
He’s doing everything he can to let me do this my way, and it makes me wonder what he’s restraining himself from. It makes me wonder what an unleashed side of him would be like.
The image sends a surge of heat to my core, and with the next swirl of my tongue, a moan slips out.
Not from him. From me.
Before I can prepare myself, Callan bucks his hips, thrusting nearly every inch down my throat.
Tears instantly prick my eyes, and Callan freezes. His grip on my jaw loosens.
Sensing his panic, I pull away. When I look up at him, there’s panic on his face—a whole lot of desire too—but he seems conflicted by the two emotions. Grey eyes flick between my face and my hand, still wrapped around his length.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. More than fine, actually. I didn’t drop to my knees in front of the Captain for him to restrain himself. “Do it again.”
Something about the statement sets his eyes on fire. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace now, and I want so badly to know what he’s thinking about. Whatever it is, he’s fighting with it.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, tracing the line of my jaw even as he says it.
I decide laughing would ruin the mood. “You won’t,” I murmur against him instead, brushing my lips across the bulged vein running length to tip.
Callan watches as if he’s mesmerized by the way it looks, and I hope he’s taking in the sight of me before him—kneeling in front of this chair he hates so much.
“Chaos,” Callan warns, voice tight in barely leashed restraint.
“This is your memory,” I remind him, rubbing my finger over the bead of moisture that has gathered at the tip. “How do you want to remember it?” I lick my thumb on instinct, holding his gaze as I do, and something jolts awake in his eyes. Something unleashed.
With a haunting slowness, Callan wraps my hair around his knuckles, tightening until my heart beats so fast I almost change my mind. Almost. But I’m no quitter, and I know what I’m asking for…I think.
“Okay, Lucina,” he relents, but his voice has a new edge to it. It’s low and smooth, like silk over my skin. “Deep breath.”
Gods.
I’m not sure there is a breath deep enough for what I’ve just signed up for, but the speculation is irrelevant when he thrusts past my parted lips and hits the farthest wall of my throat.
I swear I see stars.
The most beautiful stars I’ve ever seen, actually. Glittering through the instant tears that well in my eyes.
My body comes alive at the movement, and judging by the way he’s gripping my hair, bucking his hips without a single restraint, I’m certain his has too.
Heat singes my veins, dancing over the fire crackling in my core, and the outside of my skin prickles like static.
As if being this full of him comes with being full of his power too.
So much power. Mighty and sovereign and fatal.
All for me.
“Eyes.”
I look up between thrusts, tears slipping down my cheeks, but this is exactly what I wanted. Him. Unrestrained and unapologetic. For once in his life, not worrying about anything other than what he wants. And it’s thrilling to watch him take it.
Whatever Callan sees in my watery stare makes him groan. He takes himself so deep and slow that I whimper at the stretch.
“Cin,” he breathes, and my thighs begin to shake, the need to slip a hand into my shorts almost overwhelming. It’s the way his voice sounds and the way he watches me—as if there’s nothing in this world he’d rather look at.
“Dammit, you love this, don’t you?” Callan grits out, picking up the pace. Slamming his hips faster. More beautiful stars dance across my vision. “You love what you do to me.”
I do.
Another tear falls down my hollowed cheeks, and his head falls back, the column of his throat exposed. I wrap a hand around the base, taking back control as I lift, swirl my tongue around the crown, then take him deeply once more.
I manage much-needed breaths in between, repeating the movement until his grip in my hair tightens and his hips stutter. When I meet his heated gaze again, there’s a warning in his stare.
Callan tugs on my hair, trying to lift me up, but I swat his hand away.
I’m. Not. A quitter.
“Fuck,” Callan curses, spilling himself down my throat with one last, brutal thrust. Somehow, his release shoves me closer towards mine, and my thighs squeeze together on instinct. Another moan slips out and Callan’s hips buck.
“Lucina, please,” he begs, tugging on my hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”
I swallow as I pull back, huffing a laugh at the way his jaw slackens. I’m about to stand when Callan surges forward to kiss me.
Spots still dancing in my vision, my head spins with the intensity of it, and I gasp when he drags his teeth across my heavy lips. Callan murmurs something against them and hooks his fingers in the waistband of my shorts.
I grab his wrists before he can get any further. “This isn’t about me,” I tell him.
He slides his hands up my waist. “I promise I can make it about both of us.”
I scoff, my smile lingering as I dodge his quick hands and stand on unstable legs. “I’m sure you can.” And I’m sure it would be amazing. “But I need breakfast, and we have a date with your ex-girlfriend,” I remind him.
Callan groans, falling back in his chair as if he’d forgotten what we had to do today.
I grab the book I’d been reading and round the desk, heading for the door. “I’m going to shower.”
There’s a beat of silence. And then, “Can I come?”
I shake my head from the doorway, but the throbbing between my legs hates that answer. “No, you stay right there.”
“Happy to,” Callan says sincerely, running his hands across the armrests as if he’s testing out their quality.
My eyes narrow, and his feigned innocence gives way to a taunting smirk. “What? I love this chair.”
Lips tilted up in a triumphant smile, I take in the sight of him from the doorway; lazily reclined, long legs sprawled and knees bumping against the base of the armrests, a river of Sol Marks dancing across every toned and chiseled inch of him.
A king on his throne—that’s what he is—content with his new memory.
So am I.
“Good.” I drink him in a second longer. “It suits you.”
His laughter follows me down the hall.
I’d only been to the Gardens once. Gemma showed me on my grand tour of Pirn, and I’m still certain that it’s the most beautiful part of this hidden world. If I could have picked my coven and my power, I think I’d be a Flora.
Callan and I cross the stone path, tufts of grass and wildflowers peeking through the slabs.
The massive expanse of the garden is on our right, and brightly colored trees tower on our left.
It smells of freshly cut grass and newly packed soil, the botanicals growing thicker as we approach the Greenhouse.
Callan’s shoulders are tense, the line between his brows prominent, and I can only assume it’s because he’s about to introduce the girl he’s currently living with to the girl he used to—
Oh. No. I don’t like that thought at all.
I’m not sure how serious he and Aster were, and I don’t hate myself enough to ask. It’s none of my business, and I do not want details. What happened in the past belongs in the past. We’re all adults here.
That’s what I tell myself as I focus on the stunning view, reaching my fingers out to brush the neat rows of blackberry bushes, ripe tomatoes, and freshly planted saplings.
The leaves are soft against my skin, vibrant and healthy.
Beyond them are fields of brightly colored plants that flutter open and closed—as if they’re breathing—white butterflies and bees dancing between them.
All around the crops, Floras work intently on keeping up the grounds, clad in their forest green smocks. Flowers bloom from their open palms, and shriveling plants soak in their magic like water, standing tall and healthy at the brush of their fingertips.