Chapter 15 #2
Instead of answering, I guided him to my entrance and began to lower myself slowly onto him.
The slide was exquisite—the fit perfect, as if we'd been designed for each other.
I felt every inch of him as I took him inside me, felt the way his body responded to mine.
His head fell back, his jaw clenching, and along the connection between us, I felt the pleasure crash through him like a wave.
And I felt it too. Not just the physical sensation of him filling me, but his pleasure as if it were my own. The bond amplified everything—his arousal, his need, his love. It flooded through me, intensifying my own pleasure until I gasped.
"Oh," I breathed, stilling for a moment as I adjusted to the sensation of being so completely connected to him. "I can feel you. Everything you're feeling."
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I feel you too. God, Serna, you're perfect."
I began to move then, slowly, carefully, mindful of his injuries.
But even the careful movements sent waves of pleasure through both of us.
The softness of my pelt brushed against his chest as I leaned forward, and I felt him shudder at the sensation.
His hands roamed my back, my sides, learning the contours of my body with reverent touches.
Each movement built the pleasure higher.
The friction between us was intense despite the slowness, the care.
I could feel his arousal overriding the pain of his injuries—his body's response to me stronger than any ache.
And my own pleasure was building, my inner muscles beginning to clench around him as sensation spiraled through me.
"That's it," he murmured, his hands guiding my hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Take what you need."
I did. I moved on him, feeling the pleasure build with each careful thrust. His hands gripped my waist, helping me move, and I felt the tension coiling in his body—the war between the need to move faster and the knowledge that his injuries demanded restraint.
I felt his struggle. Felt his desire warring with his pain. Felt the overwhelming need to claim me, to move harder, faster, deeper. But he held back. For me. For us.
"I love you," I gasped, tears streaming down my face as pleasure and emotion overwhelmed me. "I love you so much."
"I love you," he said, his voice breaking. "Come for me, Serna. Let me feel you."
I increased my pace slightly, still careful but no longer gentle. The pleasure was building to a crescendo, the bond amplifying every sensation until I couldn't tell where my pleasure ended and his began. I was close, so close, and I could feel him there too—right on the edge.
"Together," I whispered, and he nodded, his hands tightening on my waist.
We moved together, finding a rhythm that was careful but intense, slow but overwhelming. The pleasure built and built until it was unbearable, until I was gasping his name, until I felt the tension in his body reach its breaking point.
And then we were there—that moment of perfect intensity.
I felt my inner muscles clench around him as my orgasm crashed over me, felt the pleasure radiate through every cell of my body.
I felt his release simultaneously—felt it as if it were my own, felt the pleasure explode through him as he came hard inside me.
We gasped together, our bodies locked together, our hearts beating in perfect synchronization as pleasure washed over us in waves.
I collapsed against him, my head on his shoulder, our bodies still joined.
His arms wrapped around me, holding me close despite the pain it must have caused his injured ribs.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair. "I've got you, my love."
"I've got you too," I whispered back, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.
"I love you," he murmured into my hair. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to remember that. I love you more than anything."
"I love you too," I said. "And we're going to survive this. We have to."
We stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other in the dim light of the cell.
Eventually, I shifted off his lap and helped him lie down on the bench, then curled up beside him.
It was cramped and uncomfortable, but I didn't care.
I needed to be close to him. Needed to feel his warmth, his presence, the steady rhythm of his heart beating in time with mine.
"I wish there was a way to warn them," I said quietly. "During the council call. Some way to let Ako and the others know what's really happening without Riuondo realizing."
Cullen was silent for a moment, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my shoulder. Then he said, "There might be."
I lifted my head to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Morse code," he said. "It's an old Earth telecommunications system—ancient, really. Predates modern technology by centuries. It uses patterns of short and long signals to represent letters and numbers."
"I don't understand."
"You tap out messages," he explained. "Short taps and long taps in specific patterns.
Each pattern represents a letter. String the letters together and you have words, sentences, entire messages.
" He shifted slightly, wincing. "The military used it back in the early days of warfare.
It fell out of use when better technology came along, but some of us still learned it. Tradition, mostly."
Hope flickered in my chest. "And you know this code?"
"I do. And I taught it to Chloe when she was young." A small smile crossed his face. "We used to tap messages to each other across the dinner table, drove Catherine crazy."
"So if Chloe was on the council call..." I sat up, my mind racing. "If she was there, and I could tap out a message—"
"She'd recognize it," Cullen finished. "She'd know something was wrong."
My mind was already working through the possibilities. "I need to request a private communication before the full Council call," I said slowly, thinking it through. "With specific people."
Cullen shifted to look at me. "Who?"
"Duke Ako, for one." I sat up fully now, the strategist in me taking over despite our circumstances. "The Council will follow Ako's lead—they always have. If he accepts my abdication as legitimate, the others will fall in line. Riuondo knows this. He'll want Ako to lend credibility."
"Smart," Cullen said. "Who else?"
"Chloe." I met his eyes. "I'll tell Riuondo she's become my new assistant. That I need to give her instructions on handling the transition—what files to transfer, who to contact, how to manage the handover of power. It needs to sound official, necessary."
Understanding dawned in Cullen's expression. "So you can tap a message to her."
"Exactly." I felt the first real spark of hope since our capture.
"Riuondo wants this abdication to look legitimate.
He needs the Alliance to accept it without question, or his claim to power falls apart.
He'll agree to a private communication if I frame it correctly—if I make it seem like I'm cooperating, making this transition smooth and believable. "
"That's brilliant," Cullen said quietly. "You're still thinking five steps ahead."
"It's what I do." I allowed myself a small smile. "You need to teach me this Morse code. Every pattern, every letter. Well compose the message I need to send and you can teach me to tap it out exactly. I can't afford to make mistakes."
"Then we have a plan." Cullen reached up and cupped my face. "I'll teach you the code. The basics, at least. Enough to get a message across."
"How long will that take?"
"A few hours, maybe. It's not complicated once you understand the pattern." He pulled me back down beside him. "We'll practice until you have it memorized. Until you can tap it out without thinking."
"What should I say?" I asked. "What message?"
Cullen thought for a moment. "Keep it simple. 'Held hostage. Riuondo alive. Send help, planet Msituni.' Something like that. Short, clear, impossible to misinterpret."
"Hostage. Riuondo alive. Send help, planet Mstuni," I repeated. "Yes. That would work."
He began teaching me then, tapping patterns against my arm. Short tap, long tap, combinations that formed letters. A was short-long. B was long-short-short-short. C was long-short-long-short. I focused intently, committing each pattern to memory, practicing until my fingers moved automatically.
We worked through the night, our voices low, our bodies pressed close together in the cramped cell. And for the first time since our capture, I felt something other than despair.
I felt hope.
Because we had a plan. We had each other. And we had a chance—however slim—of getting out of this alive.
"Again," Cullen said patiently as I tapped out the message for the twentieth time. "You're rushing the long taps. They need to be distinct from the short ones."
I tried again, forcing myself to slow down, to make each tap deliberate and clear.
"Better," he said. "Much better. Chloe will recognize that."
I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Our heart. The rhythm that bound us together more surely than any chain.
"We're going to make it," I said. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Yes," Cullen agreed. "We are."
And lying there in the darkness, with my mate's arms around me and a glimmer of hope in my chest, I almost believed it.