Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alethea awoke with Nakir’s arms still around her, cocooned in a warmth that felt almost otherworldly in the chilly winter morning.
The room was dim, the faint light of dawn casting a soft glow upon the walls.
She slowly sat up next to him, careful not to disturb his slumber with her movements.
Early-morning sun filtered in through the east-facing windows, painting intricate patterns of light and shadow across the room.
“Mmm,” Nakir murmured, his hands instinctively reaching out to pull her closer as he stirred from sleep.
His touch was gentle yet possessive, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin as if he could read her very soul.
“Come back,” he ordered in a soft, sleepy tone, his eyes still closed but his voice carrying a quiet authority that made her heart flutter.
She smiled at his drowsy command, unable to resist. Silently, she obeyed, moving back into the circle of his arms. The warmth of his body enveloped her against, a sanctuary against the chill.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was a comforting lullaby, easing the knots of uncertainty that had settled in her stomach.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she pressed herself against him and found him already hard. At this simple noise, he made a small, low sound against her skin.
“Don’t mind me,” he growled, his voice low. “I dreamed of you last night and woke up next to you this morning. I’m going to think about your screams all day today.”
His words hung in the air, laden with desire, leaving Alethea momentarily breathless.
Nakir’s touch was featherlight, exploring the contours of her naked body with a reverence that sent shivers down her spine.
His fingers moved with purpose, mapping out the landscape of her curves, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
Each touch felt like a promise. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the intoxicating sensations enveloping her.
Nakir’s touch was a language of its own, speaking volumes without uttering a single word.
“Should we get back to camp?” she asked, breathless.
With a slow, deliberate intensity, he explored every inch of her, his mouth a fusion of heat and desire.
The sensation of his teeth grazing across the sensitive spots he discovered made her gasp, the pleasure and the slight sting shooting straight to her core.
A whimper escaped her lips as he turned her over so her back was pressed to his chest, his cock firm against her backside.
“Not yet.”
Alethea was already boneless from the memories of the previous night.
She pressed herself against the warmth of him, mewling when his hand slipped between her legs and found her already slick with want.
Her fingers found purchase in his hair, grasping at the strands as if seeking an anchor in the waves of pleasure his touch brought.
She arched her back and opened her knees involuntarily, offering herself more fully to his ministrations.
“Nakir,” she whined when he only slid himself along the wetness of her, the head of his cock pressing right past that sensitive nub.
“Nakir, what?”
Oh gods, he was going to drive her wild, always making her declare what she wanted.
“I want you.”
“Yes, love.”
She gasped as he finally filled her again, the sensation overwhelming and incredible. Alethea’s breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, her heart pounding in her chest as she surrendered to the way he wrought pleasure from her body.
“Fuck, Thea.” He drew out in a long, slow slide and thrust back into her again in one solid motion.
This time, the new angle had her reeling and moaning against him.
One of his arms wrapped underneath her and held her firm to him, while the other stayed between her legs, tormenting the sensitive nub there.
It was so much all at once—all she could do was grasp desperately at the sheets while he tortured her with his deliberately slow pace.
“You feel incredible,” he told her in her ear. “You’re taking me so well.”
The intensity of Nakir’s words stirred something primal within her, awakening a hunger she hadn’t known existed.
Her mind was a tempest of lust and longing, a whirlwind, threatening to sweep her away entirely.
With every filthy phrase that fell from his lips, every long thrust of his hips, every circle he pressed against her, she felt herself losing control, teetering on the edge of blissful madness.
At his drawn-out groan in her ear, Alethea came undone, falling apart against him in crashing waves. “Nakir, please,” she begged as he rode her through it, unrelenting.
His words were a low growl that vibrated against her body as she was battered by the tides of her climax. “You want me to come?”
“Yes.”
His grip on her tightened. The sounds he made were downright sinful as he let himself fall apart, his entire body shuddering as he found release with a groan he barely muffled against her shoulder. He was still holding her as they came down, their panting breaths evening out.
Alethea couldn’t imagine how she was ever supposed to leave this bed.
He cleaned her up with just as much reverence and care as last night, and it was this act that left her feeling impossibly treasured.
He did not rejoin her in the bed, where she lay with the sheets in total disarray around her. Instead, he lingered by the edge, watching her with those hungry amber eyes. She could see he was debating it—the idea of claiming her again; of never leaving this bed.
“We need to bathe before we’re in polite society again,” he finally declared.
“You mean we have to go?” Alethea asked, pouting like a petulant child.
“I’m afraid we do, my love.”
She shivered at that word again. It was a terrifying word, but she didn’t get the impression he used it lightly.
A sudden rap echoed through the room, jolting Alethea from her momentary trance. With a sharp intake of breath, she instinctively pulled the covers tightly around her, her heart pounding in her chest. Nakir, ever composed, swiftly donned his trousers before approaching the door.
The knock came again, more insistent this time, prompting Nakir to open the door just a fraction. She heard Balthasar’s low bass voice and Nakir’s chuckle. The door opened a little wider, and she watched the spymaster pass through a large tray before closing the door again.
Nakir brought her the gift from their hosts—a substantial tray adorned with an assortment of breakfast delicacies: steaming pastries, succulent fruits, and a pot of fragrant tea. The aroma wafted through the room, teasing her senses and making her stomach rumble in response.
Nakir’s eyes met hers, illuminated by a playful glint. His lips curled into a boyish grin, mischief dancing in his gaze as he spoke. “Myron sent us breakfast in bed. How thoughtful.”
“He knows,” she lamented, throwing herself back against the pillows, covering her face as embarrassment rose like unwanted heat in her ears. “Did you see the way he looked at us at dinner?”
“I did. The Great Lady was there to play politics; the Great Lord was there to play matchmaker. I hope they’re not too tired from the long night of Revel.
Oh, he’s also sending up a fresh bath, so I’d stay safe hidden under those covers for now.
And... what do you know? Tea.” She had never seen Nakir look so smug. “Silphium. What a thoughtful host.”
She lifted her head from the pillow. Silphium—a monthly measure, and not something that found its way onto a standard breakfast tray.
Myron knew exactly what he was doing. It was thoughtful, she supposed, in the way that a knowing wink across a crowded room was thoughtful—generous, but impossible to mistake for anything other than exactly what it was.
“I feel like I could die of embarrassment.” She buried her face in the down pillow but softened the moment Nakir’s hands moved up and down her back. A soft moan left her as her body remembered what promises lay in those touches, and she fought back the urge to let her own hands explore.
As promised, a fresh bath of hot water was drawn for them, and to her amazement, Alethea didn’t perish even a little—though she did turn an incredible shade of pink and yanked the duvet up to her eyeballs while the servants prepared it.
“Why don’t you get into the water?” Nakir offered, bringing the tray over to her as she did.
Alethea enjoyed a quiet bath to herself while Nakir stepped out into the hallway. She couldn’t know when she’d next have access to something like this—a real bath, hot water, privacy—so she decided to make the most of it. That meant washing her hair.
It was always an ordeal. She worked through it in sections, her fingers separating the long, tangled mass of it before she could even begin to wet it through properly.
It took three applications of the soap before she felt satisfied, the water around her clouding as she rinsed.
Wringing it out was its own challenge—there was simply so much of it, spilling over the edge of the tub and puddling on the floor no matter how carefully she tried to contain it.
She’d long since made peace with the fact that washing her hair was less bathing and more an endurance event.
She took her time scrubbing the rest of herself, ruefully rinsing away all the evidence of what they’d done.
Despite her efforts to distract herself, her thoughts kept drifting back to Nakir.
His touch, his whispers, the way he looked at her with hunger in his eyes—every detail replayed itself in her mind, making her heart race and her skin tingle.