Chapter 59 Teach Me
Teach Me
He doesn’t repeat himself.
“Then get on your knees.”
I am already moving. I hold his stare as I lower myself in front of him. My father’s blood is still drying on my skin.
“Teach me,” I say.
His jaw tightens slightly, not in refusal but in restraint breaking.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” I look up at him. “I don’t want to guess. I don’t want to fumble. I want to know exactly how to please you.”
That changes something.
His hand threads through my hair. “Eyes on me,” he says.
I obey.
“If you look away, I stop.” It isn’t softness. It’s control.
A groan escapes as my lips brush the tip of him, the faint pulse of him quickening under my touch. He guides me with quiet, precise instructions, letting me know when I do something right and adjusting me without apology when I don’t.
“Again,” he says.
I start over, taking him into my mouth carefully, testing.
“Slower,” he instructs, his fingers tightening in my hair. I obey, dragging my tongue along the underside of his length, feeling the way he hardens even more against me.
His breath hitches, just enough to tell me I am pleasing him. I take him deeper, my lips stretching around him, hollowing my cheeks as I suck. His hips shift slightly, a restrained thrust, and I hear the low rumble in his chest. “Deeper,” he says, voice rough now, his control fraying at the edges.
I push forward, taking more of him. My eyes water slightly, but I don’t pull back. His jaw tightens as he looks down at me.
“Good,” he growls, the word carrying a darker edge than tenderness, feeding something restless in both of us. I can feel the tension building in him, the way his thighs tremble under my hands, the way his breath comes shorter now.
I pull back for a moment, my lips wet and swollen.
My cheeks flush hot, and I bite my lip, hesitating as the words stick in my throat.
I loosen the straps of my gown, pulling it down until I am exposed from the waist up.
“I want you all over me,” I say, my voice low, pleading. “Not just in my mouth.”
His eyes darken, a feral edge taking over as he processes my words. “Are you sure?” he rasps, his hand still in my hair, tilting my head back to look at him fully.
I nod slightly, my hands sliding up his thighs. “Make me yours in every way. Mark me.”
“You want to be covered in me?” he asks, voice thick with desire.
“I need it.”
“Show me.”
I take him back into my mouth, moving faster now, my tongue working him with purpose. His grip tightens, and his hips buck just a little harder.
“Say please.”
“Please,” I whisper, my voice trembling with anticipation.
“Open.”
I open my mouth slightly, my eyes locked on his. My tongue rests just past my lips, waiting.
He curses, then with a guttural moan, he lets go, hot streams hitting my cheeks, my lips, dripping down my chin and onto my neck.
I close my eyes for a moment, the rawness of it sending a thrill through me.
I swipe my fingers across my cheek, gathering some of it, and bring it to my mouth, tasting him.
Then I slide my hand down, rubbing the rest over my breasts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice still rough, as he reaches down to wipe a streak from my jaw with his thumb, smearing it slightly before bringing it to my lips. “You look perfect like this.”
Before I can say another word, he reaches down, pulling me up with a firm grip under my arms. The control he keeps wrapped around himself has thinned to something fragile.
He lifts me easily, carries me across the room, and sets me on the table that still bears the mark of his fist. Papers scatter to the floor once more.
“Hold the table,” he says. I brace my hands against the rough wood.
His hands move to the remaining fabric of my dress, dangling from my waist. "This is useless,” he says.
With a quick yank, he rips the cloth, leaving me bare.
He drops it on the floor, his focus back on me.
He rests his hand on my hip, easing my legs apart with a nudge of his knee.
I grab the back of his hair with my hand, forcing him to look at me. "I do not need careful, husband."
He laughs softly. “Fine. No holding back then,” he says, his hand sliding between my legs, finding me slick. He swipes some of the lingering fluid still on my breasts, then rubs it gently on the sensitive center between my legs.
“And remember, you don’t come until I say so,” he murmurs as his other hand moves lower.
I tense as one finger pushes inside, then another follows, the rhythm of his other hand never faltering.
“Be good,” he murmurs, beginning to pump gently.
Deep, then deeper. A small whimper escapes as he bends them slightly, adjusting until he finds an unfamiliar place that sends a jolt through me.
"Colsar."
“Yes,” he says, his voice even but loaded. He works them fast, aiming at that place with precision. Pleasure builds, my legs trembling as wetness coats his hand. The room fills with the slick sound of skin. “Let it overwhelm you,” he says, watching me come apart. "That's it, Princess."
I think I hear my father coughing on the floor, but I can't tell over my own screams.
“Fuck,” I gasp, clutching the table, the sensations growing more intense. He doesn’t ease up, driving me toward the edge.
“You are doing it perfectly, my love,” he murmurs, voice firm, guiding me. “You’re close."
The pressure builds. "I've never--"
"Shh, I know." He leans down. "You’re about to make a mess, and I want all of it.”
The sound of wet skin grows louder as I moan, his hand pumping relentlessly.
“So obedient,” he murmurs. “Not coming until I say so.”
The sensation is almost unbearable.
His mouth brushes my ear. “I love you. Now let go, Ash Princess."
It undoes me. The pressure bursts, and I cry out, rough, soaking his hand, splattering the table and floor.
My body quakes, tears slipping down my cheeks, the release overwhelming.
"I'm here," he says, voice soft but firm.
His kisses continue, warm on my neck now, grounding me, high-pitched gasps and moans slipping out with every shudder.
His free hand strokes my back lightly. “I'm here," he repeats.
He presses his lips to my temple, kissing softly, as the tremors rack my body.
“Everything,” he rasps, voice thick as he pulls his slick hand free, keeping the mess on his fingers. He looks at me, flushed and trembling on the table. "You're everything."
I reach for him. "Colsar, I want you."
"Manners."
"Fuck me, please."
He aligns himself, pausing to meet my eyes. “Promise me always."
"Always," I breathe. He moves over me with the same certainty he used to dismantle my father. There is dominance in it, yes, but also something far more consuming, an obsession that borders on reverence even when his mouth is rough and his grip unforgiving.
We are insatiable, pausing only when the table begins to creak beneath us. Then he lifts me and we continue everywhere, against the wall with my legs wrapped around him and his hands holding me in the air, and on the blood-stained floor.
Eventually he lowers himself into the chair where my father had been tied, nudging the body aside with his foot before pulling me onto his lap.
I hesitate for a moment as I move closer.
His attention shifts toward my father, and I know what he expects, that I have remembered who else remains in the room.
That is not it. I have simply never been on top before.
He reaches for my waist and pulls me onto his lap. From there he teaches me how to move, guiding my hips until I find the rhythm that pleases him. It is short lived. His need for control returns quickly and he shifts, taking me back beneath him.
And so we continue, position after position. For a while I let him take the lead. At one point I push back.
He stills. “Careful.”
“Make me,” I answer.
That earns me a look that burns hotter than anything he’s done so far. There are moments where he is unyielding. Moments where he pins my wrists and reminds me who holds the power. Moments where he murmurs exactly what he intends to do and then does it.
There are moments when he laughs against my skin as I bite his shoulder. Moments when I roll him onto his back simply to prove that I can. He allows it for exactly three seconds before turning us again, pressing me beneath him with quiet certainty.
There are no rules between us. No careful script to follow. Only the two of us, learning each other in whatever way the moment demands.
By the time we finally reach the bed upstairs, the daylight beyond the windows has shifted. Somewhere along the way we stop trying to measure time at all.
He changes with every moment. Dominant. Then playful. Then relentless. Then quiet and slow, as though committing every part of me to memory. Sometimes I push. Sometimes I defy him just to see the look it brings to his face. Sometimes he punishes the defiance. Sometimes he kisses it out of me.
We don’t speak of love again. We don’t need to.
After one particularly long stretch, the kind that leaves both of us breathless and heavy, I slip from the bed while he washes.
Immature. Petty. And I’m already pleased with myself.
I crawl under the bed and wait.
The silence stretches.
Then his voice fills the house. “Asharin.”
It stays low, held in dangerous control as he checks the kitchen first, then the terrace, then the spring, his pace quickening with each empty room.
“Asharin.”
By the time he reaches the bedchamber again, there is something feral in the way he moves. The mattress dips as he sits, and a moment later his hand slides beneath the frame and closes firmly around my ankle.
I shriek with laughter as he drags me out.
“Payback,” I gasp. “For this morning.”
His expression darkens. “That wasn’t funny.”
“I know.” I’m still smiling.
He stares at me for a long moment before dragging me back onto the bed. “You’re going to regret that.”
I don’t.
Later, when the pace slows, when we lie tangled together in a way that feels less like conquest and more like aftermath, I trace a finger over his chest.
“How many?” I ask lightly.
His eyes shift to mine.
“Before me.”
His answer comes without hesitation. “Enough to know I didn’t want them.”
“That’s not a number.”
“I never stayed,” he says. “Never slept beside one. Never let them stay after.”
I blink. “Not once?”
He shakes his head.
I grin against his shoulder. “They really missed out.”
He arches a brow. “On what?”
“Getting to hear you snore,” I say solemnly. “What a tragedy for them.”
He looks confused for half a second, then offended as realization dawns. “I do not snore.”
“You absolutely do.”
He rolls on top of me again, expression unimpressed. “I should correct you.”
“You already have. Repeatedly.”
He kisses me just to shut me up.
When evening comes, he rises without complaint. There is no drama in it, no hesitation as he dresses in silence. Trousers first, then the shirt drawn back over skin that still bears the marks of my teeth.
Before he leaves, he bends and presses a kiss to my forehead, slower than usual.
He puts on a hooded cloak. Boots. Gloves.
“I won’t be long.”
“I know.” I sit upright in the bed, sheets twisted around my hips, watching him prepare like he is preparing for war.
“Are you taking him yourself?” I ask.
“Yes.” He buckles the knife at his hip. “He will not arrive unguarded,” he continues. “And I do not trust anyone else with him.”
That is the end of it.
I rise and cross the room, bare feet quiet on the floorboards. I wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades.
“Make sure he understands,” I say softly.
“He does.”
“No,” I murmur. “Make sure he understands who did this to him.”
A pause.
“He does,” he repeats, lower this time. He turns, pulls me into him, mouth brushing my temple. “I won’t be long," he says again.
“You’d better not,” I say lightly.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers pressing just enough to remind me of earlier.
“You hide from me again,” he says, voice rough with remembered irritation, “and I won’t be amused.”
I smile. “I wasn’t trying to amuse you.”
“I know.”
“I’ll return before dawn,” he says.
“You’d better.”
His mouth brushes mine, then he leaves. From the terrace I watch them bring my father up from below. He is bound, hooded, and smaller than he has ever looked.
The sight makes me smile.
He stumbles when they force him forward. Makes a sound when he sees me standing above him.
Colsar does not let him linger in it.
He mounts first, then drags my father up behind him, securing him with one arm as though the man were no heavier than a parcel meant for delivery.
The movement carries quiet certainty, the kind that leaves no room for argument. At the edge of the road he turns once. His attention finding me where I stand in the fading light.
I lift my chin in silent answer.
Then he turns away and rides toward the river road, the horse carrying them steadily into the deepening dusk. The trees close around them one by one until their shapes dissolve among the trunks. Above the road, the sky dims slowly toward night.
I stay where I am long after they disappear, the air cooling against my bare skin, the scent of pine and distant water settling in around me. He will watch the ship depart. He will see the papers sealed. He will remain until there is nothing left to undo.
He finishes what he starts.