Chapter 23 Dorian
DORIAN
The storm thickened until rain turned the window into a sheet of silver.
Lamps threw honeyed light across Ivy’s room, softening everything, even the edges of his impatience.
Dorian sat with her on the window seat, shoulder to shoulder, the glass cool at his back and her warmth along his side.
He could taste apple and clove on her breath.
He could feel the cat inside him go quiet and intent, the way it did when a hunt shifted from thought to motion.
She looked at him. The lamplight caught in her eyes and made them glow like old amber. He kept his hands where she could see them.
“Your choice,” he said. He meant it. Every word.
The promise seemed to break something loose in her expression. She leaned forward and kissed him, soft at first, then with growing heat as he responded.
He let her set the rhythm. Her mouth tasted like rain and the last of the wine.
When she parted her lips, he stroked his tongue to hers, slow and coaxing, letting her feel how careful he could be.
Her fingers slid into his hair, and he breathed against her lower lip just to hear the sound she made when he did.
They undressed carefully, like people sharing secrets, each revealed inch of skin accompanied by whispered praise and gentle touches. When uncertainty flickered across her face, he stopped.
“We can slow down. We can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop. I just…” She took a shaky breath. “Sebastian used to say I was too eager, too demanding. That I needed to learn restraint.”
The casual cruelty of it put heat behind his eyes. He swallowed the growl before it showed. “Sebastian was an idiot who didn’t deserve what you were offering.”
She searched his face. “How can you be sure?”
“Because you’re not eager or demanding. You’re generous. There’s a difference.”
He showed her the difference with patience and the kind of focus that turned the rest of the world into weather and light.
He kissed the edge of her jaw and the hollow beneath her ear.
He told her what he liked about the way she shivered, the way her breath hitched when he traced the slope of her ribs with his fingertips.
He slid his palms over warm skin and felt the hum of her magic abilities rise to meet him, faint as a harp string at first, then stronger.
“Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me what feels good.”
“Your mouth,” she said, voice breathy. “Everywhere.”
“Everywhere is a lot of real estate,” he teased, just enough to make her smile.
He knelt on the rug and kissed his way down her body as she leaned back against the cushions.
The lamplight painted her in gold and shadow.
Copper hair spilled over her shoulders and clung in damp waves to her collarbone, the storm turning the room humid and close.
He took his time, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist, the bend of her elbow, the soft slope above her hip.
He worshiped as if she were something rare and holy, because she was.
When he reached the waist of her pants, he paused. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
He eased fabric down, slow and respectful, and then took in the sight of her, bare and beautiful, thighs parted for him.
The panther inside him rumbled like a low purr.
He settled between her knees and kissed the delicate skin there, one side then the other, patient as tide.
Her fingers slid into his hair again. He listened to the storm and to her breath and to the way her body relaxed when he exhaled warm air against her.
He put his mouth on her pussy and tasted rain and salt and something sweet that was only Ivy.
She gasped his name, soft and startled, and he smiled against her.
He licked her slowly from base to tip, teasing, and then circled the tender bud with his tongue until her hips lifted.
He kept the rhythm he knew would build rather than burn.
When she tried to chase more, he pressed a hand to her thigh, steady, and said against her skin, “I have you. Let me.”
“Dorian,” she whispered. “It feels like flying.”
“Good,” he said, voice low. “Then I’ll be the wind.”
He slid two fingers along her slick heat and pushed one inside, careful and slow.
She clenched around him, tight and perfect, and he groaned before he could stop it.
He worked his finger in a steady glide, then added a second when she asked for more, the words small and brave.
He curled just so, learning her with every tremor, every breath.
Then he sealed his mouth over her clit and drew her higher.
Her thighs trembled around his shoulders.
She tugged his hair, not to pull him away, but to anchor herself, and he told her, yes, that’s it, you’re safe, you can let go.
She did. She broke apart on his tongue with a sound that punched straight through his chest. He held her through it, kept the rhythm until the shivers eased, then gentled his touch until she reached for him.
“Come here,” she said, already pulling him up.
He crawled over her and kissed her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
Her hands fumbled at his belt. He caught her wrists and kissed the inside of each, slow, and then guided her pace.
He stripped his shirt and tossed it aside.
Her palms flattened against his chest like she wanted to learn him by touch.
He let her. He was hard and aching, and when she slid her fingertips down his stomach and curled them around his cock, he had to shut his eyes for a breath and let the wave pass.
“I want you,” she said.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Say stop if you need to. At any point.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Not tonight.”
“Then I’ll keep asking anyway.”
He reached between them and wrapped a hand around himself, guiding the blunt head to her entrance. He slid along her first, slow, just the slick promise of it, then kissed the corner of her mouth when she made that small helpless sound again.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did. He pushed in an inch, then another, savoring the stretch, the way her body took him.
He felt her tight around his cock, hot and wet and welcoming.
Her nails bit his shoulders when he sank deeper, and he had to breathe through the surge of hunger that wanted everything at once.
He gave her time. He pressed his mouth to her throat and whispered praise until he felt her open, a slow blooming all around him.
“More,” she said.
“Yes.” He eased the rest of the way in and seated himself deep.
For a heartbeat, he just stayed there, chest pressed to hers, breath mingled, the rain a steady drum on the glass.
He could feel the cat in him pacing the edges of his control, not to dominate, but to join.
He let the animal’s focus sharpen his own.
He drew back and thrust slow, shallow, learning the angle that made her gasp.
He set an unhurried rhythm, each stroke deliberate, each retreat an invitation.
She cupped his face and stared like she wanted to memorize him.
He let her see everything he usually hid, even the careful that lived under the charm.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Full,” she said with a breathless little laugh. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for years and finally remembered how to breathe.”
He kissed that laugh and rolled his hips, deeper now, steady pressure that made the headboard tap the wall in a quiet beat. She matched him, hips meeting his, the shy gone from her voice.
“Harder,” she murmured.
“Tell me if I lose you.”
“You won’t.”
He braced one hand on the mattress and slid the other under her thigh, lifting, opening her wider.
He pumped deeper, hard enough to make the window rattle, not hard enough to shake the trust they were building.
The sound of their bodies filled the room, wet and raw and honest. He watched her mouth fall open, watched color flood her chest, watched magic flicker faintly along her skin like heat lightning far off a mountain.
“Talk to me,” he said, because he wanted every piece of it.
“I can feel you.” Her words came on a pant. “All of you. It’s like your heat is inside my bones. It hurts, but in the way I’ve been wanting.”
He groaned, thrust deeper, felt her clutch around him. “That’s it. Take what you need.”
She caught his wrist and guided his hand to her clit. He rubbed in tight circles that matched the pace of his hips. She began to climb, the muscles in her stomach flexing under his palm, her breath turning into open sounds that did not apologize for a thing.
He bent and put his mouth to her breast, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing after.
Her back arched. He felt the edge gather.
He kept her balanced there, then tipped her over.
She cried out his name, raw and lovely, and it went through him like lightning.
He drove into her through the pulse of it, not stopping until she tugged him closer and whispered, “Come with me,” into his mouth.
He gave her one hard thrust and then another, and the coil that had been dragging at his spine snapped.
He spilled into her with a rough gasp, forehead pressed to hers, hips stuttering as the last of it took him.
Her hands flexed on his shoulders, holding him down as if she knew he needed anchoring.
They lay together in the damp sheets with rain-humid air, her head pillowed on his chest while he traced patterns on her bare shoulder.
The storm softened to a steady hush. His breath slowed.
The panther purred low and pleased, a vibration he knew she could not hear but seemed to feel, because she sighed and pressed closer.
“Stay,” she murmured against his skin. “Tonight, just stay.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
He curled an arm around her and let his hand rest over the strong, steady beat of her heart. He listened to it like a song he had been waiting to learn. He kissed her hair. She slipped into sleep with a little sound that made him smile against the crown of her head.
He didn’t sleep much. He lay there and watched the storm roll over the square and let the animal settle into the quiet of a den that felt like it had been his all along.
He counted the breaths between distant thunder.
He mapped the shadows the lamp made on the ceiling.
He memorized the way she shifted in sleep and then settled again, trusting him to keep the night easy.
Years of standing guard did what they always did. He woke before dawn, the rain reduced to a whisper, the window a cool gray. Ivy slept on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek. He brushed his mouth over her shoulder and eased out of bed without waking her.
Clothes, boots, quiet.
He wrote the note at the small desk in his careful blocky hand.
Had to check festival security. I’ll see you tonight — D
He set it on her pillow where she would see it first with a rose from a vase in the hallway, then stood a long moment to look at her, because he couldn’t help himself. The urge to stay tugged hard. The urge to hunt tugged harder.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. He did need to check the lines he had set and the corners Sebastian Crowe favored when he wanted to watch without being seen. But mostly, he needed proof the warlock had not left a single thread inside Hollow Oak that could be pulled to unravel Ivy’s new safety.
He slipped into the hall and pulled the door to with the softest click. The inn breathed around him like an old cat, content but alert. He padded down the stairs and out into damp predawn, where the square lay silver and quiet and ready for another day.
Standing guard had never felt so personal. He bared his teeth at the gray light and let the panther’s patience guide his steps.