Chapter 6
Kael
The Lord of Water’s Bedchamber—Casteltide
“What does Telya mean?” she repeats.
Her question lingers in the air—but all I can think about is the heat of her body so close to mine.
Citrus and soft skin, the faintest hint of arousal already sparking in the air like ozone before a storm.
My cock throbs against the confines of my trousers, demanding, relentless.
I should explain, but words feel small compared to what I want.
“Telya literally means pull of the tide,” I manage, my voice rough, low. “But between lovers it’s more like you’re my tide.”
Her lips part. “But we—we aren’t lovers.”
The denial is breathless, shaky, threaded with something she doesn’t recognize yet—want.
I grin, stepping into her space, and cup her cheeks with both hands.
Her skin is warm, fragile against my palms, and the second her body brushes mine I feel it—the surrender she hasn’t named yet, the give in her muscles, the instinct to let me hold her.
A sharp, primal victory burns in my chest. It makes me want to throw my head back and howl at the sea like a wild thing.
Instead, I take her mouth.
Claim it.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. I lick into her, tasting her sweetness, drawing out the quiet moan she tries to smother.
The sound drives me mad. My cock jerks against the seam of my trousers, desperate for relief, and I rock against the air, grinding for a fraction of friction.
Her hands fist in my tunic, tugging, holding.
She doesn’t even realize she’s clinging to me.
Perfect little surrender.
Perfect storm.
“Kael,” she whispers against my lips, and my name has never sounded like that before.
Plea and permission in one breath.
I slip one hand down, over the lush curve of her waist, her hip, until my fingers find the hem of the soft gown she wears.
I ease it higher, over her thighs, baring warm skin.
She gasps as my knuckles graze her, but I hush her with another kiss, deeper, hungrier.
When I slide my fingers over the damp heat of her sweet, dripping pussy, she jolts.
“Oh—”
“Yes,” I growl, stroking over the slick folds, savoring how ready she is for me. “Gods, Telya, you’re already wet for me.”
Her protest dies in a whimper as I circle her clit, gentle at first, then harder, finding the rhythm that makes her writhe.
Her thighs part for me, and I slide two fingers inside her, slow, deliberate.
The tight, wet clutch of her walls nearly undoes me.
“Kael! Oh God,” she gasps again, her voice breaking, her hips rocking helplessly into my hand.
I curl my fingers, stroke deeper, coaxing every shiver, every desperate moan. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her head tipping back.
She’s beautiful like this—caught between fear and desire, undone by my touch.
I grind against my own palm, cock straining, and finally I free myself, hissing as the cool air hits the hot length of me.
I stroke hard, matching the rhythm of my fingers inside her.
Each sound she makes feeds the storm inside me until I’m trembling with it, fighting the instinct to bury myself inside her.
Her climax breaks fast, sharp—her body clenching around my fingers, her cries muffled against my chest.
I pump her through it, savoring every pulse of her release.
The sight of her falling apart because of me pushes me past the edge.
With a guttural groan, I spill hot over her soft belly, my hand still stroking my cock as I paint her skin with my release.
The sight is obscene, glorious, like claiming written in salt and heat.
Breath ragged, I press my forehead to hers, forcing myself to still my hand, to still the urge to sink into her and make her mine completely. Not yet.
“That was—I mean, wow,” she whispers, dazed, flushed, glowing.
I kiss her, softer this time. Reverent.
“Telya fits you,” I murmur against her lips. “My tide. My undoing.”
And though every bone in my body aches to take her fully, I keep the promise I made to myself.
I’ll woo her.
I’ll win her.
She will choose me.
Because Phoebe Sewell might not just be the key to saving Castletide.
She might be everything.