Chapter Forty-One
The latch hasn’t even caught before I’m on my toes, my mouth crashing into his, all heat and need and seven months of unravelling in one kiss.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t breathe. Just yanks me forward with a sound torn straight from his throat—low, guttural, starved. Then spins and pins me, my spine hitting the door with a deep thud.
One hand finds my jaw, his thumb pressed against my pulse like he’s feeling it stutter beneath my skin. The other lands heavy on my hip, claiming.
The shock of it cracks through me, setting every nerve on fire—then it’s gone, replaced by the rush. By him, by the brutal drag of his mouth over mine as he kisses me back.
“Thorn,” he rasps, voice wrecked, ragged. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
My chest rises hard against his. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. One fucking good night after seven months of hell.”
And god, I do. I want him like a fever. Like madness. Like something I’m not supposed to survive. I pull him closer. I need that mouth back on mine, now.
“You said it yourself, you don’t trust me.” He breathes as he skims his lips down my throat. My thighs press tight, lungs lock when he finds the spot just beneath my jaw, the one that makes thinking impossible.
“I’m not asking for a fucking trust fall, I’m asking for this.”
My hand slides between us, trailing slow, intentional, down the front of his uniform.
When I find him already hard, thick, straining against the fabric, everything in my chest locks.
And for a second, the world holds still, the air thickens.
Then I move, flattening my palm, pressing against it, light and testing.
“Fuck, Lyra,” he groans, short and strangled, head tipping back as his whole body tenses under my touch. “I’m barely holding myself together. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Every part of me wants to cross this line, please don’t fucking tempt me.”
“Right thing for who?” I lean in, teeth grazing his jaw. “You’re not going to break me. My magic’s stable now. I’m not some cracked vessel about to shatter.”
His eyes shut like he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge—but when they open, they’re darker. Hungrier.
“There are a hundred other reasons this is a bad idea.” He grits out, but his hands are moving—climbing up my side, trailing over my ribs.
This is reckless. I shouldn’t want this. Not with him. Not like this. But I do.
“You’re probably right,” I murmur, rolling my hips against his, just once, just enough. “But I don’t care. I’m not thinking about a lifetime. I’m just thinking about tonight.”
My grip tightens around the solid length of him, and he curses low, forehead dropping to mine like he needs the contact just to hold it together.
“The thing about this dress…” I tease, leaning in as I catch his right wrist, sliding it down over my thigh. “It’s too tight to wear anything underneath.”
I find the slit in the fabric and guide him under, skin to skin. His breath stalls, but I don’t stop—just keep guiding him higher, until his hand is right there, pressed up against that desperate ache between the apex of my thighs, where I’m already pulsing—nothing but greed and want.
“See?” I whisper, “I know exactly what I want.”
A broken sound cracks from his chest—low and raw—and then his free hand is in my hair, fisting it at the base of my neck. Not cruel. Not tender. Just... desperate. The kind of touch that says he’s losing the last shred of control he has left.
“Lyra, you feel so fucking good.”
My hips tilt forward as I press his hand harder against me, showing him exactly how badly I want this. Exactly how ready I am. He shudders, fingers twitching against me.
“Just tonight?” he repeats, like the word hurts.
“Just tonight.” I confirm.
He doesn’t move at first. Just stares, lungs working in broken, jagged pulls, eyes asking one last time if I really mean it.
“I want this, I want you,” I say, quiet but clear.
He exhales like it punches the air out of him. A heartbeat. Two. Then—
“Fuck it.”
It’s not a curse, it’s a surrender, and something in him breaks. I feel it, the tremor that runs through his chest before the words even land.
His hands move, gripping my hips, and suddenly I’m airborne, back thudding against the door as he lifts me like the decision was made hours ago and his body’s just catching up.
My dress rides up as my legs wrap around him without thinking, and he catches my bottom lip between his teeth, a rough grip that steals my breath. No hesitation now, just that fevered, greedy pull. The kind of kiss that silences everything but the blood pulsing in my ears.
It feels so fucking good.
My lips part, eager for more, and when his tongue catches mine, sparks flood up from somewhere low and dark, my fingers find the back of his neck, digging into his hair before I even think.
He tastes like smoke, something bittersweet and safe. The kind of safe that makes you stupid, the kind of safe that tightens in your gut—because it always leads somewhere you can’t come back from.
The slow sweep of his tongue turns greedy, a stolen breath I don’t get back. My hips answer before my mouth can, rocking into him like instinct. He presses back hard, locking me to the wood, setting me exactly where I want him, where I need him.
My heartbeat kicks up as I feel the solid press of him between my legs, thick and hard through his clothes, and fuck, it punches a soundless gasp from my chest.
I lean in more, chasing it. Deeper, messier. Craving the weight of him, the contact, the friction, the sharp give of his teeth when he forgets to be careful. It’s dizzying. Addictive. I lose track of where I stop and he starts, just the drag of his body against mine.
And god, I never want this to be over.
His breath skims my collarbone, my fingers knot in his hair, head falling back.
“You okay? Your magic—” he murmurs against my skin, then pauses for the briefest second.
“It’s fine,” I reply, rushed, laced with frustration. “Stop worrying. I don’t want soft. I don’t want careful.” I lean in, bite down on his lip just enough to make him curse. “I want to forget. So if you're going to fuck me, stop talking and do it right.”
His expression shifts, and the smile that follows is wicked, crooked and full of promise—spreading slow across his face like he’s just been waiting for this, for permission, for me.
His left hand stays locked at my hip, anchoring me against the door, but the other roams down, skimming the bare line of my thigh—still wrapped tight around his waist—until he reaches the spot where my dress has ridden up.
His fingers hook under, then higher, and my chest tightens so hard it knocks the air right out of me. But then his hand stops halfway, palm grazing against my sensitive skin.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been holding back.” A ragged inhale, his lips hot against my ear. “How long I’ve wanted to feel you and not let myself. I don’t even remember what it feels like to not want you.”
He claims my mouth again, fierce and hungry, and I gasp when his finger sinks into me. Not a thrust. A claim. Steady, unrelenting pressure that holds me right there.
The rest of the room disappears. It’s just his breath, his voice and the sweet drag of his hands like he already knows all my pressure points.
My head tips back, “More.” I manage, the word half-plea, half-command.
“Fuck, the way you sound—” his voice roughens. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to hear you come.”
The words hit, but it’s his voice that wrecks me. It lands like a hand on my throat, possessive and unrelenting
Then the pleasure sharpens—sweet, unbearable; as he sinks another finger inside, deeper this time, curling until he finds that exact spot that tightens everything.
I fist my hands in his hair, holding on, hard, while his mouth continues to devour mine. There’s no hesitation now, and when his thumb grazes my clit, a blinding jolt of utter bliss tears through me—fast, sharp, impossible to hide.
My back arches before I can stop it, chasing the touch, the friction—but he doesn't give in.
He stays maddeningly slow, fingers barely skimming as he draws those light, infuriating circles that only make the ache twist tighter, lower, hotter, deeper.
I bite down on a sound tangling in my throat, but it breaks free anyway. A low, helpless moan. He doesn’t stop—keeps kissing me, keeps touching—pleasure swelling in slow, pulsing waves.
My hips roll against him—needy, unthinking—and this time, he moves with me, like he already knows exactly how I want it. Every drag of his fingers is precise, every movement relentless. Holding me right there, suspended on that knife-edge between not enough and too fucking much all at once.
“Fuck, don’t stop.” I say it, or maybe I just think it. Either way, he hears me. And answers, the pressure shifts. Firmer. Deeper. Faster. My legs tighten around him, muscles drawn taut.
“You feel unreal. Fuck, I can’t get enough,” his voice warm against my mouth.
God, yes. My Threads stay quiet, but the feeling flooding me is pure magic—searing and wild, sparking through every nerve.
He breaks from my lips, tracing down my neck, then across my chest, his hands never stopping, coaxing more from me with each stroke and curl.
Pulling a brutal rush that slams through every inch of me, my hands scrambling—shoulders, hair, anything to hold onto—because I’m shaking now, strung so tight I could break.
He exhales hard, a half-swallowed curse, as I tighten around his fingers inside me. “Come for me, Lyra—fuck, please.”
Pleasure surges, hot and merciless, until thought disintegrates. I gasp. Just need. Just this. Just him. I can’t hold back anymore.
My legs lock around him, then everything inside me shatters.
The waves hit—too deep, too good—shattering through my spine, brutal and bright, dragging me under.