Chapter 44 Darts
Darts
We finally pull apart because we have to.
Because breathing has become something we are doing wrong.
Because if we do not stop now, whatever restraint he has rebuilt over the last hour will snap completely.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us unsteady, air shared between us like something fragile.
“A round of darts?” I manage, though my voice betrays me.
He laughs. “You think you can hit the board?”
I shove him lightly. He does not move.
“I have excellent aim,” I remind him. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”
We play for a while. Darts thud into the board, and the quiet pauses between throws give us both a chance to recover, the rhythm of the game restoring a fragile illusion of composure. Eventually he wins, and when I accuse him of cheating he looks almost offended.
But between one throw and the next, his voice lowers. “You cried in your sleep every night we were in the cave.”
My dart slips from my fingers. “It is not… a big thing,” I say, too quickly. “It happens more nights than not. It is simply what my nights are.”
He watches me without interruption. He does not say he is sorry. He does not say it will stop. He simply takes his next shot and splits the center cleanly.
When the game ends, he walks me down the corridor without touching me, though he stays close enough that the warmth of him brushes my arm with every step.
At my door, I hesitate. “I was very accustomed to being alone,” I say, staring at the carved molding instead of him. “And now, after three days in a cave with your unnerving stare, sleeping alone feels… strange.”
He kisses me before I can reconsider the confession. “I cannot share your bed tonight,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Why?” I ask, because I need to hear him say it.
“Because we are drunk,” he says. “And because I want to do this properly. I will not rush you. You deserve better than that.”
He pulls away for a moment, his hands on my shoulders. “You deserve…everything, Asharin.”
My chest tightens at that. We kiss again anyway. Longer. Deeper. A servant passes down the corridor and pretends not to see. I flush and try to step back, but his hand tightens slightly at my side, keeping me close.
“I have never shared a bed with a woman,” he says quietly. “Not truly. Jessamy was…proximity. Performance. I have never slept with someone at my side.”
“You surprise me,” I whisper.
“The intimacy part,” he admits, the words slightly reluctant, “is new.”
“Well,” I say, attempting dignity and failing, “you are fortunate. I have barely done anything at all.”
Something shifts in his expression at that. “Then I will be the first,” he says softly.
Silence stretches between us.
“Are we moving too fast?” he asks suddenly.
“You are already my husband,” I reply. “Some might argue we are moving embarrassingly slow.”
That earns a sound from him that is nearly a laugh.
“Besides,” I say quietly. “Neither of us seem to be very good at this. If there are rules to follow, I doubt we will do it properly anyway. So we might as well just…act how we feel.” My face burns as I say the words and I do not know why.
Before I can continue, he pulls me toward him and we kiss again. This time there is no pretense left in it. His hands are no longer careful. Mine are no longer unsure. The press of him against me makes it impossible to ignore what my body is doing in response.
He breaks away with visible effort.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “We are going to end up on that bed.”
“We are at the bed,” I point out faintly.
His eyes close briefly. He inhales, collecting himself. “For relief,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “There is another way.”
My pulse jumps.
“I am not taking you tonight,” he continues. “But that does not mean you have to lie awake aching.”
“I have never…” I begin.
“I know.”
His fingers slide slowly along the inside of my wrist, unhurried. “You do not have to be ashamed of wanting,” he says quietly. “And you do not have to figure it out alone.”
I swallow. “You will stay?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Yes.” The answer is immediate.
“If I am going to teach you,” he continues, voice darkening slightly, “I am not walking away.” He guides me to sit back against the pillows.
He takes my hands in his and places them gently between my thighs over the fabric of my dress.
His voice is close to my ear. “Slow,” he murmurs.
“Feel it. Do not perform for me. Do not hurry because you think I expect something.”
My breath catches as my fingers press uncertainly against the warmth between my legs, the unfamiliar awareness of my own body intense enough to make me hesitate.
My fingers falter. He closes his hand gently around my wrist.
“Good,” he says, voice lower now. “That’s it. Do not stop when it begins. Stay with it.”
His hand remains loosely around my wrist, guiding the motion, showing me the rhythm rather than forcing it.
At some point, I reach for him, and he does not stop me.
He guides my hand the way he guided his.
Then something in him loosens, just enough that I can feel the effort it takes for him to remain composed.
The restraint that defines him cracks in small, audible fractures.
“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough as he adjusts my grip. “Not too tight. Slow at first.”
My fingers tremble against him, feeling the heat through the fabric of his pants. My own body tightens in response, an ache building low and insistent, a need that makes my thighs press together.
“You feel that?” he asks, a groan escaping as my hand moves. “That’s because of you. Watching you, it’s too much.”
I can barely speak. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
“You are,” he says, his voice strained. “You are far more dangerous than you realize. Keep going. Match me."
His own hand hasn’t stopped, guiding mine over him, but then it shifts. His fingers trail down my side, hesitating at the edge of my dress. I bite back a moan as his touch lingers, warm through the thin fabric.
“May I?” he asks, voice a low rumble, almost pleading yet holding back. His fingers hover. Not touching yet. Waiting.
I nod, unable to form words, my chest tight with anticipation.
His fingers slip beneath the waist of my skirt, finding the delicate edge of my undergarments.
My body has already betrayed me, aching, opening, responding long before he ever touched me.
The brush of his warm skin against mine sends a shiver through me as he eases beneath the fabric, slow and searching.
A small sound escapes me and his stare locks onto mine, drinking in every bit of my reaction. My skin burns under that look, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“Asha,” he murmurs. His fingers pause for a moment, then move again with slower intent. He brings them to his mouth, his eyes holding mine.
“Your body is already doing exactly what I want,” he says quietly.
He tastes them slowly, thoughtful. “Good to know.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Now I’m going to want more of that.”
My face flames, but the words ignite something deeper, pushing me closer to an edge I’ve never crossed. “I, I can’t think straight,” I stammer.
“You don’t need to,” he says, almost a growl, returning his hand to underneath my dress. “Just feel. Don’t stop.” He pauses then, pulling me into a kiss that is full of need, as though he is pouring every unspoken want into this one moment. The taste of myself on his lips makes my body shudder.
His fingers linger between my legs for a moment longer, gathering the evidence of my desire before he withdraws them. A shiver runs the length of my spine as I watch him bring his hand to where mine rests on him, now freed from the confines of his pants.
He smooths the evidence of me along himself, coating my fingers and his length with it, making the glide smoother. The intimacy of it, the rawness, sends a jolt through me.
“You’ve never seen this before,” he says quietly, noting my wide eyes, my hesitant grip.
“It's so…big,” I say shyly.
“I’m not sure what to do,” I admit, voice barely a whisper. The tension between us feels tangible, like something I could reach out and touch.
“You’re already perfect,” he replies, rough and earnest. “Just keep your hand there. Let me show you.”
“Yes. Like that,” he says, voice rough as he guides my hand again.
I swallow hard, my grip tightening instinctively as the sensation shifts, more fluid, more intense. My stomach flips at the sight of him, bare and hard in my grasp, the reality of him overwhelming me with a desperate need to be closer, to know everything.
His fingers return between my legs, matching the pace of my uncertain strokes, building a rhythm that mirrors the pounding in my chest. Every movement is heavy with a longing neither of us can name.
“Do not silence yourself for my comfort. I want to hear what I am doing to you,” he murmurs suddenly, voice thick with need.
My lips part, a shaky whimper escaping before I can stop it, and his stare darkens, urging me on. The permission, the want in his tone, frees something in me. The next sound comes louder, raw, spilling out as his touch and my own build that unbearable ache.
“Look at me,” he says, voice tense with need. “Don’t hide from me. I need to see it all.”
I force my eyes to meet his stare again, and the want there nearly undoes me. My breath comes in short gasps and all that matters right now is just him, just this.
“Faster now,” he rasps, his own hand quickening. “Don’t pull back. Let it take you.”
My moans grow louder as I arch my body into his hand.
“That’s it,” he urges, voice low and ragged. “I’m right here. Don’t pull back now.”
When I come apart beneath his voice and touch, the look on his face is one I have never seen before.
When he follows moments later, it’s because he’s been watching me, feeling me the entire time.
His jaw clenches, a low sound escapes him, and his body shudders under my touch.
The heat of him spills over my hand, sticky and warm, and I’m too overwhelmed to do anything but hold on.
We lie there, breathing hard. Neither of us pretending this was anything small.
After a moment, his hand finds mine, gently lifting it from where it rests.
My fingers are still slick with him, and before I can react, he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a quiet kiss to my knuckles.
Then, with a tenderness that contrasts the rawness of before, he reaches for a cloth at the bedside, wiping my fingers clean with careful strokes.
The act feels as intimate as everything else, a silent acknowledgment of what we’ve shared.
“Couldn’t leave you like this,” he murmurs, voice soft but still rough around the edges. “Not tonight.”
He brushes his mouth over mine once more, slower now. “Next time,” he says roughly, “we will not stop here, my Asha Bear.”
The air is still thick with want, but a different kind of quiet exists. He pulls back slightly, his stare still on mine, softer now but no less intense.
“You should change,” he says, his voice low. “Get into something for sleep.”
I nod, my limbs still shaky. “Will you turn around?”
He doesn’t smile, but something shifts in his expression. “Of course.”
He turns his back to me, broad shoulders blocking the faint light from the corridor beyond the door.
I fumble with the ties of my dress, my fingers unsteady as I slip out of the heavy fabric.
It pools at my feet, and I quickly pull on my nightgown, thin and soft, the hem brushing just above my knees.
My skin prickles with awareness, knowing he’s there, even if he’s not watching.
“Done,” I murmur, sliding under the covers, the fabric cool against my still heated skin.
He turns back slowly, his stare finding me again.
He takes in the sight of me in bed, the nightgown’s delicate straps, the way the fabric clings.
I feel exposed under his scrutiny, not because the gown is revealing, but because of how he sees me.
My face flushes, and I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve never seen me in my nightgown before.”
His eyes darken, a slow burn. He steps closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that his weight shifts the mattress. “When I finally take you,” he says, voice rough and certain, “you won’t need any of those anymore.”
My pulse jumps. I can’t find words, but his eyes hold mine, and I know he sees the way his words affect me.
He shifts after that, then rests at the side of my bed instead of the foot. Close enough that if I lower my hand it will brush fur.
“Are you comfortable?” I whisper.
He shifts back just long enough to answer. “There is nowhere else I would rather be.”
A pause.
“Wife.”
Then fur replaces skin, and he lies down again, his strange eyes fixed on me.