CHAPTER 45 - Elara
The rough brick wall was a cold shock against my back, but it vanished instantly beneath the overwhelming heat of his body.
Sylas pressed his weight against mine, his mouth still moving over mine with a fierce, breathless hunger that obliterated every trace of the damp vault around us.
His hands left my hair, sliding down my neck to frame my throat, his thumbs resting against the frantic, galloping pulse beneath my jaw.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. His breath was ragged, hot, and uneven against my lips. His gray eyes were completely dilated, almost black in the dim amber light of the pocket flashlight.
“Elara,” he choked out, his voice a low, rough rasp I had never heard from him before. It was entirely stripped of his usual calculation. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don't,” I breathed, my hand tightening in the damp wool at his shoulder, pulling him down. “Don't you dare stop.”
He let out a low, breathless sound—halfway between a groan and a surrender—and buried his face in the crook of my neck.
His lips brushed against the sensitive skin beneath my ear, sending a sharp, electric shiver straight down my spine.
His hands moved down to the hem of my soaked, oversized black sweater, his long fingers brushing against the bare skin of my waist as he slowly began to lift the heavy wool.
He paused, his hands hovering, his knuckles lightly grazing my ribs. He looked up, his eyes searching mine with a fierce, quiet intensity.
“Your shoulder,” he murmured, his voice tight with a sudden, protective restraint. “I don't want to hurt you.”
“I don't care about the shoulder,” I whispered, my voice trembling but certain. “Take it off.”
With an agonizing slowness, keeping his eyes locked on mine, he carefully guided the heavy, wet fabric over my arms and head, discarding it onto the pile of canvas sails below.
When his fingers brushed the sterile bandages covering the wound, his touch became unbelievably light, almost reverent, completely at odds with the raw fury from a moment ago.
He leaned down, his lips trailing down my collarbone, avoiding the injured side entirely, before his hand slid back down to the button of my damp jeans.
He stopped again. His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving against mine as he kept me pinned gently between his body and the brick wall.
“Elara,” he whispered against my skin, his hand resting unmoving on my hip. “Look at me.”
I tilted my head up, my eyes meeting his. The storm in his gray eyes was terrifying, but there was an absolute, unyielding clarity beneath it.
“Ask me to stop,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle into my hip bone. “If you don't say it now, I won't be able to.”
“I'm not going to say it,” I breathed, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, pushing his hand slightly downward in a silent, desperate command.
A sudden, dark heat flared in his gaze. Sylas didn't hesitate.
He unfastened the button, his long fingers sliding beneath the damp denim, tracking the curve of my hip with a slow, deliberate pressure that made my knees go weak.
He dropped to his knees on the canvas sails before me, his towering frame still dominating the space, his face level with my waist.
His hands slid down my thighs, guiding the wet denim down until I could step out of my sneakers and clothes, leaving me exposed to the cool air of the vault—and to the burning intensity of his gaze.
He looked up at me, his fingers wrapping around the backs of my thighs, his grip firm and anchoring. “May I?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a register so low it vibrated straight through the stone floor.
I couldn't speak. I could only nod, my fingers tangling into his damp hair to hold myself upright as my body began to tremble from a completely different kind of shock.
Sylas leaned in, his mouth pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the bare skin of my stomach, making my abdomen contract sharply. Then, his hands slid higher, lifting my right leg slightly to drape it over his broad shoulder, opening me to him completely in the dim amber light.
His fingers found me first. They were incredibly warm against the chill of the vault, his touch precise but heavy, parting me with a slow, agonizing deliberateness that drew a sharp, ragged gasp from my throat.
“Sylas,” I choked out, my head falling back against the brick wall, my eyes closing as a wave of intense, blinding heat rushed straight to my core.
“Keep your eyes on me, Elara,” he commanded softly, his voice rough.
I forced my eyelids open. He was looking up at me through his dark lashes, his jawline locked, his fingers moving inside me with a steady, rhythmic pressure that knew exactly where to press, exactly how to push.
He wasn't rushing. Every movement was a question, and every breath I took was the answer.
When his thumb found the center of the heat, his touch hardened just a fraction.
The friction was sudden and electric. A sharp, gasping sob broke from my lips, my fingers tightening into his hair with a desperate, clawing grip as the tension built up over weeks of silence and ice suddenly compressed into a single, agonizingly tight coil.
“Sylas, please—”
“I have you,” he murmured, his gaze unyielding, his fingers driving deeper, matching the frantic rhythm of my hips as I began to chase the edge. “Just breathe. Stay right here with me.”
The world tilted. The dark brick walls, the hum of the distant river, the keys to the empire inside the kindle—everything flatlined. There was only the blinding, golden heat of his fingers, the friction of his thumb, and the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing filling the vault.
The coil snapped.
A violent, rhythmic wave of release crashed through me, my muscles contracting sharply around his fingers as a high, breathless cry was torn from my throat.
My vision went completely white, my body arching off the brick wall as the intensity of the orgasm rippled through every nerve, burning away the last remaining traces of the cold London rain.
Sylas held me through it, his grip on my thigh tightening, his fingers remaining buried deep inside me, absorbing the violent tremors of my body until the waves finally began to slow into a soft, throbbing ache.
I slumped forward, my strength completely gone.
Sylas caught me before I could fall, his long arms wrapping around my bare waist as he pulled me down onto the canvas sails with him.
He holds me tight against his chest, his dark sweater rough against my skin, his heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs.
Neither of us said a word. He didn't pull back, and he didn't try to fix his clothes. He just held me in the dark, his hand resting flat against my lower back, his breath heavy and warm against my hair as the silence of the vault settled over us like a shield.