Chapter 25 #2
The door of her home clicked shut. In the same moment, his hands framed her face, and he kissed her again. Slow, deep. A claiming kiss that held all the reverence of the atelier and the raw promise of the rain-soaked street. There were no more words to be said. No testing, no searching.
Only want.
His mouth was warm and sure, tasting of heat and restraint undone, and her body flooded with the response. She pressed into him, feeling the strength of his chest against hers, the low rumble in his throat as he deepened the kiss.
Her fingers tangled in the folds of his coat, dragging it from his shoulders as he reached for her waist. She gasped against his mouth, arms looping around his neck as he pressed her back against the door.
“Say no,” he whispered, “and I’ll stop. Say anything, and I’ll listen.”
She cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing the hollow beneath his lip. “Don’t stop.”
His gaze roamed her face as if to be sure. Then he kissed her again—deeper now.
“Bedroom?” he spoke against her lips.
Cassia nodded. “You know which door.”
His mouth still on hers, he drew back just enough to murmur, “I should ask—do we need to take precaution?”
“I have something I can take,” she whispered back. “After.”
He gripped her thighs and lifted her in one seamless motion. She gasped, arms locking around his shoulders as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The heat surged between them, pulsing with every step he took down the hallway.
Anuck was in the centre of her bed, paws tucked beneath him, looking like a neatly shaped loaf. He hissed the moment Ark crossed the threshold, shot them a scandalized glare, and leapt off in a dramatic puff of fur before disappearing into the hallway.
Ark didn’t miss a beat. He kicked the door shut behind them and lowered her to the edge of the bed.
His fingers found her buttons—less steady now, more urgent.
Her blouse slid off her shoulders, then her underclothes.
Everywhere his hands followed, her body arched to meet him.
She scooted back, pulling him down over her.
He stopped with his head just below her chest, his breath warm against her stomach.
When he tugged her skirt and undergarments past her hips, he rose to his knees and looked at her.
Moonlight from the window traced the curve of her waist, the rise and fall of her breathing.
His hand hovered over her hip, fingers trembling.
This man, who sealed cursed relics without flinching, was trembling because of her.
Then he bent his head and kissed the inside of her ankle, slow and reverent. Her calf. Her knee. Her thigh. She gasped as he parted them gently, his mouth trailing fire along her skin, his breath warm and teasing at the place where she throbbed for him.
Her hips lifted. He caught them and held her still, his claws dimpling the soft skin at her hip bones—ten precise points of pressure that never broke the surface.
One hand slid between them, and she felt the shift before she saw it: a subtle ripple beneath his skin as his claws retracted to form smooth fingertips.
The transformation was seamless, instinctive—as if his body already knew what hers needed.
When his fingers slipped inside her, she gasped.
The devastating tenderness of it—this same hand that could tear through flesh, now stroking her open with a patience that made her tremble.
His thumb found the sensitive peak above, circling slowly, and she arched into him with a sound she couldn’t contain.
Then his lips brushed her stomach. Warm.
Unhurried. He moved lower. The jut of her hip.
The soft skin of her inner thigh. Each graze sent heat racing ahead of his mouth, her body tightening around his fingers in anticipation.
She could feel his breath now, warm against her core, and every nerve she possessed gathered there, waiting.
When his mouth finally arrived, the world narrowed to the slow, devastating drag of his tongue.
She cried out, one hand flying to her mouth, the other curling in his hair, finding the base of his horns.
She gripped him. He groaned against her centre.
He found the tight, aching bud that made her tremble, lifted it with his tongue, then circled it, again and again until her thighs began to shake.
When she was close, he stopped, kissed up her belly, her ribs, the swell of her breast. His mouth closed around her nipple—warm, firm, the edge of his teeth grazing—and her back bowed off the bed. A cry tore from her throat.
He rose slowly, chest pressing to hers, his weight a grounding heat.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured in her ear, his voice rough and frayed. “I want you so badly it’s destroying me.”
Her breath stuttered. She reached for him, found his horn, and traced the ridged curve from tip to base. His whole body shuddered—a bone-deep tremor she felt everywhere they touched.
“You always react like this,” she whispered, awed.
His jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping. “They’re sensitive only when you touch them.” His voice was barely holding together. “And you keep doing it like you mean to unmake me.”
She stroked the base again—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes fell shut.
“Maybe I do.”
A growl rumbled through his chest and he ground his hips into hers. The pressure tore a gasp from her throat. She felt him through his trousers, straining against her, and knowing how much he wanted her sent a liquid rush of heat between her thighs.
Her legs parted on instinct. She reached between them to touch him.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want you now.”
He drew back slowly, and she felt the loss of his warmth keenly. He stood at the edge of the bed and stripped—each layer shed like a concession he’d never made for anyone else. She watched his composure fall away with each article of clothing.
Until there was nothing left to hide behind.
He was beautiful. All of him bared for her. Only for her.
The dark swirls she’d glimpsed at his collarbone spread farther than she’d imagined—shifting as she watched, winding down his chest, curling along his ribs, spiraling over his abdomen in slow, pulsing whorls.
They narrowed at his hips, then swept inward, tracing the V of his lower belly in twin arcs.
She couldn’t look away. Without breaking her gaze, he wrapped his hand around himself and stroked—once, slow, deliberate.
The sight of it—his fingers circling his length, the markings pulsing beneath his grip, his jaw tight—stole her breath.
He stroked again, slower, and the sound that escaped his throat settled low in her belly.
She couldn’t just watch. She didn’t want to just watch.
Her hand covered his. He stilled, fingers loosening beneath hers, yielding to her lead. When she wrapped her grip around him—warm skin, rigid heat—his abdomen clenched. She stroked once, twice, her thumb tracing one of the spiraling lines along his length.
He threw his head back, his groan low and wrecked. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched the markings shift with his breath. Then he moved.
Ark knelt between her thighs, holding her open. “Still sure?” he asked.
She nodded.
He notched himself at her entrance and pushed inside.
She cried out, her head snapping back. Her body clenched, resisted for a heartbeat, then yielded, opening for him inch by torturous inch.
She felt everything: the blunt pressure, the burn, the deep invasion when he finally seated himself to the hilt.
A sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and he stilled immediately, chest heaving.
“Cassia.” Her name was a wrecked prayer. “Tell me.”
“Don’t stop.” She dug her nails into his shoulders. “Please. I need—”
He moved.