Chapter 48 – Azaria #3
When we broke apart, he pulled me against his chest, and I let my eyes close.
The silence stretched between us, warm and golden.
His hand traced idle patterns on my skin.
My fingers threaded through his hair. But even as my body relaxed, my thoughts wandered back to that night in Calvessan.
Darann’s manor. The corridor after dinner.
“You remember Darann’s manor?” I asked. “That night after dinner, when you came to check on me?”
He frowned slightly. “Yeah. What about it?”
I shifted closer, breath brushing his jaw. “When I saw you standing there... barefoot, still damp from your bath, those linen pants low on your hips…” I let my voice drop. “That V of muscle. That line of hair disappearing under your waistband.”
His breath caught.
“All I wanted,” I whispered against his ear, “was to drop to my knees and find out where it led.”
His cock twitched against my thigh.
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I came,” I said quietly. “To the image of you standing in that doorway.”
Something flashed across his face: heat, wonder, barely restrained hunger.
“Azaria…” His voice was already rough.
I pressed my palm to his chest and pushed. He went willingly, falling back against the mattress. I swung my leg over his hips, straddling him, hair falling around my face. “I didn’t get a good look that night,” I murmured, mouth brushing his. “So I’ll take my time now.”
I kissed him, then slid down his body.
My breasts brushed his chest, my nipples dragging over his skin, and the low, desperate groan he gave sent heat straight through me.
I smiled against him and moved lower, pressing kisses along his throat, his collarbone, the firm curve of his chest, until I took one nipple into my mouth and scraped my teeth over it lightly enough to make his hips jerk.
His hands fisted in the sheets.
I moved lower, kissing my way down his stomach and tracing the lines of muscle with my tongue.
My hair spilled over his skin, and his whole body tightened beneath me.
When I reached his thighs, my hands slid over them and gently pressed them wider, giving me more room as I kissed the inside of one, then the other, lingering just enough to feel the tension in him turn almost unbearable.
He was hard again—thick, flushed, already leaking.
I kissed the hollow of his hip, right at that V of muscle I’d been thinking about since Calvessan. He cursed, head falling back, fists clenching tighter in the sheets. I kissed it again, slower, then moved lower until my mouth brushed the base of him.
He shuddered.
I wanted this. Wanted to worship him the way I’d imagined that night at Darann’s manor. Wanted to make him fall apart the way he’d made me fall apart.
I wrapped my lips around him, feeling the heat and salt and the weight of him on my tongue. I took him slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every inch as I sank down.
His hips jerked, breath catching. “Azaria?—“
I hummed, and the vibration made him groan. His hand found my hair, gathered it into his fist, and tugged gently. I purred at the pull—couldn’t help it—and the sound made him curse.
I worked him slowly. My lips slid down, tongue flat against the underside, and I took him deeper before pulling back to swirl my tongue over the head. He cursed. I did it again, hollowed my cheeks and sucked until his thighs shook. Then I looked up and met his eyes.
His gaze was dark, hungry, barely controlled.
His chest heaved, stomach clenched. The power of it rushed through me.
The knowledge that I could bring this man to his knees with my mouth, that every sound he made was mine, that he was falling apart because of me.
I took him deeper, hand stroking where my mouth left off, the other cupping his balls, massaging.
“Fuck—“ His voice broke. “Azaria, you’re going to?—“
I hummed again, tongue swirling, and his hips thrust helplessly into my mouth.
I could feel him getting close through the tension in his thighs, the ragged breathing, the desperate grip in my hair.
He came hard, and I took everything he gave me, working him through it until he had nothing left.
He sagged back, trembling. I released him slowly, kissed the base, then looked up through my hair. His eyes were glazed. I smiled.
Before I could move, he flipped me. One second I was above him, the next I was on my back, and a laugh escaped me. He buried his mouth between my thighs before I could catch my breath. I gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Quin?—“
His tongue was hot, wet, and relentless. He licked deep, sucked hard, circled my clit until I was gasping his name. His hands spread my thighs wider, holding me open.
“Quin—I’m?—“
He flattened his tongue, dragged it slow and hard, then sucked.
I shattered. My whole body bowed, thighs clamping around his head, a cry tore from me as pleasure rolled through in waves.
He groaned into me, licked me through it, savoring every tremor.
When I finally went limp, he gave me one last lingering stroke before pulling back.
I lay sprawled across the sheets, completely undone. He looked utterly satisfied as he crawled up beside me, lips still wet.
“Your mouth is incredible,” I managed.
He grinned. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
I watched him leave the bed. He was bare, his back lined with the faint red trails where my nails had dragged across his skin. He moved like he didn’t notice the marks, like he wore them with pride.
Downstairs, glass clinked softly and water ran; small, domestic sounds from the man who’d just wrecked me and was now taking care of me
When he returned, the lantern-glow caught him, and I let myself look.
The broad sweep of his shoulders tapered into a narrow waist, the blood magic tattoos crawling down from his chest in dark, intricate lines that wound over his ribs, traced the cut of his hips, and disappeared along the hard muscle of his thighs.
Every step shifted something—the flex of his quads, the roll of his shoulders, the easy confidence of a man who had no idea how beautiful he was.
He handed me the water without a word, and I took it without taking my eyes off him.
I sipped. He joined me under the blanket, and his hand found my stomach and traced slow circles like it belonged there.
His breath was calm now, measured, but I could still feel the restlessness just beneath it.
I shifted closer, just enough for our legs to tangle.
Our noses brushed. His eyes flicked to my mouth.
“You’re staring,” I whispered.
“Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice a little raw. “You’re glowing.”
I laughed softly. “That’s sweat.”
“No. It’s you.”
I kissed him before he could say more. Nothing hungry, just the gentle brush of lips, the taste of his tongue mixed with salt and the faint copper edge that was uniquely him.
His hand slid to my hip, and I pressed into it, into him, skin to skin, chest to chest, the drag of my nipples across his chest making me shiver. He groaned low in his throat, and the sound carried something heavier than lust: a real, slow-burning want.
“Again?” I whispered, unsure if I was asking or begging.
His eyes met mine, dark and tender, full of yes. “I’ll always say yes to you,” he murmured.
His fingers traced down between us in lazy patterns. There was no urgency now, just heat. He touched me like he was remembering the way I felt. His palm cupped me, finding me warm and soft and slick already. I gasped into his mouth as his fingertips slid through the mess he’d left behind.
“You’re soaked,” he said, kissing the corner of my mouth.
I flushed. “That’s your fault.”
“I know,” he whispered.