Chapter 49 #2
He kissed her with no caution, no restraint. The hunger in him, leashed so long, clawed its way to the surface; he kissed her as if this was the last memory he’d ever be allowed. She met him with equal ferocity, fingers tangling in his hair, her teeth catching at his lower lip.
He never wished to wake.
They fell onto something. A cloud, perhaps. The dream remade the space for them, as dreams did. Her dress slipped from one shoulder, baring the pale sweep of collarbone and the constellation of freckles that spanned her skin. Azrian’s hands shook as he cupped her face, her throat, her wrists.
“Let me have you, at least in this dream,” he pleaded. “Be mine.”
She only nodded.
He kneeled before her as if at an altar, every inch of his dream-self flooded with awe and animal longing. The curve of her bare shoulder was precise, like the scythe of a crescent moon, and the way her throat bared itself to him tore at every brittle remnant of discipline he’d ever forged.
He started with a kiss just beneath her jaw, feeling the sharp intake of breath when his lips discovered that pulse-point.
He suckled there, gently at first, then with a dark urge to mark her that nearly undid him.
Instead, he scattered kisses down her neck, tracing the delicate slope with all the patience and control his training afforded him.
Sabine’s arms came up around his head, her fingers weaving into his hair, and it was not a gentle thing.
She tugged at him with a ferocity that bordered on violence, as if she meant to pull him into her very marrow.
Azrian let himself be guided, let himself be claimed.
He trailed lower, over the sharp ridge of her collarbone, to the hollow beneath it.
Her hands, impatient, were already working at the buttons of his shirt, popping them one by one with the ruthless efficiency of someone accustomed to getting her way.
“Off,” she growled, and the dreamscape disappeared his clothes, leaving him naked, cock already hard and at attention.
She explored his chest, the planes of his stomach, the old scars that mapped his life’s betrayals. She lingered at his ribs, fingertips skating over a knife wound that nearly ended him a decade ago. He shivered, though the room in this dream was warm.
He peppered her shoulders with more kisses, dragging her loose dress down her body, then drew his tongue down to her breastbone, pausing to let his warm breath raise goosebumps across her skin.
His hands rested carefully at her waist; not because she was fragile, but because he wanted nothing more than to be gentle, in a way he’d never allowed himself to be in real life.
He took her nipple between his lips, teasing at first, then more insistent as she writhed beneath him. He suckled, savoring the taste of her, the way her body melted into his hands, then shifted to the other breast and did the same, determined to leave not a single patch of her unexplored.
Dream Sabine was as fierce as the real one: demanding, insatiable, guiding his head with both hands when he strayed.
He trailed slow, careful kisses along the flat of her belly, pausing to worship each new spray of freckles.
He let his tongue flick against one, then another, smiling as she shivered and arched.
Lower still, and her thighs parted for him.
He pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, reverent, then worked his way inward, nuzzling the soft, sensitive skin.
There, too, were freckles. He blamed the extravagance of his imagination, the need to invent every detail the waking world had denied him.
He pressed his mouth to those freckles, then trailed his tongue higher, tasting her, teasing her soft, soaked folds.
Her legs fell open wider, an unspoken plea, and he answered with a groan that vibrated against her clit.
He lapped at her slowly, savoring the way her hips bucked, the way her breath hitched when he circled that swollen bud with the tip of his tongue.
She was dripping, her juices coating his lips, tasting like salt and honey.
He buried his face deeper, sucking her clit into his mouth with a greed that bordered on desperation.
She gasped, arching up, her hands white-knuckled in his hair.
He didn’t rush. Every flick of his tongue, every careful pressure, was an act of devotion.
Her thighs shook against his jaw, and the sounds she made—half-muffled, half-wild—threatened to undo him entirely.
He didn’t let up, not until her whole body convulsed, once, twice, as she shattered in his hands.
She pulled him up to her, fingers fisted in his hair, kissing him with a hunger that was all teeth and tongue.
Her hands roamed over his chest, nails scraping down to his abs, and she reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his cock with a grip that made him groan.
She guided him to her entrance, her hips lifting to meet him, and he sank into her with a slowness that was almost agonizing.
Her heat, the way she clamped around him and gasped his name—he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to.
He started slow, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, watching her face as her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted on a moan.
She hooked her legs around his waist, locking him in place, and he drove into her harder, deeper, until her gasps turned into cries.
Her hands raked down his back, nails leaving faint trails that would not last past the dream, but which he felt as deeply as any wound. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips rolling against his, and the sound of their bodies slapping together filled the dreamscape, wet and obscene.
He tried to memorize it all: the way her calves locked at the small of his back, drawing him in with every thrust; the way her eyes grew wild and unfocused; the way she bit at his shoulder to stifle her cries.
Their rhythm turned erratic, frantic. Her breath came in short, sharp pants, and he knew she was close again in the way she tightened around him, in how she moaned his name.
He leaned down, capturing her lips, and she bit his hard, as her orgasm ripped through her.
Her body convulsed, her pussy pulsing around him.
The sensation pushed him over the edge, and he followed her, cock jerking as he emptied himself inside her, pleasure shredding the last of his self-control.
They collapsed together, sweat-slick and humming, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wound tight around her shoulders as if afraid she’d be stolen by the dawn. Her breathing slowed, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.
He wanted to say something profound, something that might last beyond the dream, but all that came out was, “I’m coming for you, wife. Wait for me.”