Chapter Nineteen #2
His lips claimed her with aching certainty, hot and soft and trembling with restraint.
She gasped, parting for him, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers, tasting, learning.
Her fingers flew to his shirtfront, clutching at linen, needing something to hold before she dissolved into him entirely.
He kissed like a starving man. And yet—he kissed as though she were the only meal he would ever allow himself.
Her body leaned, pressed, yielded. When his hand slid to her hip, anchoring her, she felt fire race from the place his fingers pressed all the way through her.
She broke the kiss only long enough to breathe. “Aryeh—”
“Say it again,” he begged against her mouth.
“Aryeh.”
He shuddered, his forehead falling to hers. “You undo me when you speak my real name. And still—still you make me want more.”
She had no words, only heat.
His hands—careful at first—slid to her waist, then higher, over silk, cupping the curve of her ribs, brushing the swell of her breasts. She inhaled sharply, and he froze.
“Tell me no, Rosine, and I will stop.”
Her answer was to arch into his palms.
A curse, raw and reverent, escaped him. His mouth descended to her throat, kissing, tasting, grazing her skin with the scrape of stubble. She clutched his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her body betrayed her—pressing, wanting, desperate for friction she hadn’t known she craved.
When his teeth caught gently at the hollow of her throat, she moaned aloud. His groan answered, deep and rough, vibrating against her skin.
He lifted his head, eyes burning. “Do you want this?”
Her voice broke. “Yes.”
“There’s risk.”
“No risk. Promise.”
That shattered all of his restraint.
He sank to his knees, hands sliding down her body, over silk, to the hem of her gown. He looked up, wild and devoted all at once. “Let me see you.”
She trembled, nodding.
His hands pushed her gown slowly upward, fabric whispering against her skin. Stockings, garters, chemise—each revealed inch made his breath ragged, his gaze reverent and raw.
When the gown pooled at her feet, she stood trembling in the soft morning light, clothed only in thin linen that clung to every line of her body.
Aryeh exhaled like a man seeing salvation. “My queen,” he whispered. His hands hovered at her hips but did not touch, as though asking permission even now.
Rosine’s chest heaved. She reached for his shirt instead, fumbling at buttons, desperate to see him, too. He caught her hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then let her continue.
The shirt slid free. The sight stole her breath. Broad chest, taut muscle, skin marked with faint scars—each one a story, a survival. Her fingers brushed over one scar near his ribs from one of the riots in the Pale. He flinched, then steadied under her touch.
“No one’s ever touched me there,” he murmured.
Her throat thickened. “Then let me.”
He swept her up, strong arms lifting as though she weighed nothing, and carried her to the narrow bed he’d prepared. Roses on the nightstand, sheets clean and faintly scented with lavender.
He laid her down carefully, reverently, then came over her, braced on his elbows, eyes dark and desperate. “Tell me to stop if this is too much.”
Her hand rose to his cheek, steady now. “Don’t stop.”
He groaned, kissed her again—hard, hungry—then tugged her chemise upward, baring her completely. The cool air struck her skin, but then his mouth followed, warm and claiming, lips closing over her breast, tongue circling until she cried out.
Her back arched, fingers tangling in his hair. He moved lower, kisses trailing fire across her stomach, down to the edge of her shift. He pulled it away entirely, leaving her bare beneath him.
He looked once, long and reverent. “You’re the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
Her breath faltered. “Aryeh—please.”
He freed himself with shaking hands, his body thick and hard against her thigh. He guided himself carefully, slowly, until the tip pressed against her. She gasped at the heat, the weight, the promise.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She did.
And then he slid inside.
The world narrowed to the stretch, the burn, the exquisite fullness as he entered her inch by inch. She clutched at his shoulders, half-sob, half-moan escaping her lips. He stilled, trembling, holding himself back.
“Breathe, Rosine,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She forced her lungs to obey. And when she exhaled, her body yielded.
“Move,” she whispered.
He obeyed.
Slow at first, careful, his hips rocking into hers with reverent control. Her body adjusted, opened, welcomed. Each thrust sent heat flooding through her, her nails digging into his back.
The restraint broke. His rhythm quickened, his mouth devouring hers, swallowing every gasp and moan. She met him, lifted her hips, lost herself in the delicious shock of each movement.
She clung to him, every nerve alight. His hand caught hers, fingers interlacing, anchoring them both.
“You chose me,” he groaned. “And I’m yours.”
She cried out, the words undoing her as much as the pleasure building low and fierce. “All mine.”
That broke him.
His pace grew rougher, deeper, every thrust a claim, every kiss a vow. She shattered beneath him, pleasure crashing, her body clenching tight around his as she cried his name.
“Aryeh!”
He followed, his body jerking, spilling into her with a groan that sounded like both agony and salvation.
For a long moment, there was only breath. His weight heavy, his body still joined with hers. Then he shifted, careful, gathering her close, pulling the sheet around them both.
She buried her face in his chest, still trembling. His hand stroked her hair, slow and soothing.
“Rosine,” he whispered. “I’ll fight for you. For this. For us. Whatever comes, I’ll be your lion.”
Her eyes burned. She pressed a kiss to his chest, right above his heart. “And I’ll be your home.”
He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.
And for the first time in either of their lives, the world outside could wait.