His hand comes up to my jaw, steady, certain, and when he pulls me into him the kiss isn’t cautious or measured. It carries everything we didn’t say, everything we did, every line that’s already been crossed. I meet it without pulling back, pushing into it instead, testing the edge of him the same way he tests everything else.
He doesn’t take more. He answers.
The difference is subtle, but it’s there, and it changes everything.
His hand shifts at my waist, drawing me closer, the tension between us feels like it might fracture again into somethingsharp and unbalanced, but it doesn’t. It steadies instead, turning into something shared, something chosen on both sides rather than taken.
There’s no space left for hesitation after that.
His mouth opens against mine, his tongue finding mine, and the kiss turns from a statement into something deeper. Something hungry. I bite his lower lip, pulling it gently, and he growls softly against me, one hand moving to my hair, tugging my head back just enough to expose my throat. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t need it. This isn’t about permission anymore. It’s about claim.
“You want proof?” His voice is rough, right against my ear. “Here it is.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. His hands find the clasps on my leather vest, working them open with quick, efficient movements. I watch him, my breath already coming faster, and I don’t stop him. I let him strip me, piece by piece. The vest falls to the ground. He pulls the linen shirt from my shoulders, leaving my chest bare. The cool air touches my skin, but his gaze is hotter.
“Every inch of you,” he says, his eyes moving over my breasts, my stomach, “belongs to me now. And every inch of me belongs to you.”
He says it like a vow. Not possessive, but shared.
I reach for him, my fingers finding the buckles on his own armor. I work them open, my movements deliberate, mirroring his. I pull his tunic up and over his shoulders. His chest is bare, scars mapping old battles across his skin. I trace one with my thumb. The one he got in the ruins.
“And what about this one?” I ask, my voice low.
“A reminder,” he says. “That I survive.”
He pulls me against him, skin to skin now, and the heat is immediate. His chest is solid against mine, my nippleshardening against the rough planes of his muscles. He dips his head, his mouth finding my breast, and he doesn’t tease. He takes. His lips close over my nipple, sucking hard, and a sharp, electric pleasure shoots straight down to my core.
I gasp, my hands gripping his hair. “Vaedros?—”
“Say my name again,” he commands, his mouth moving to my other breast, his tongue circling the peak before drawing it deep.
“Vaedros,” I breathe out, and it sounds like surrender. It sounds like victory.
He lifts me, hands under my thighs, and carries me back against the stone wall. The rough surface scrapes against my back, but he cushions me with his body, pinning me there with his weight. One hand slides down between us, fingers finding the waist of my pants. He tears the fastening open, not bothering with care, and pushes the fabric down my legs. It pools at my feet.
I’m naked now, fully exposed to him and the dim light. His gaze on me is a physical touch. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing over my stomach, then lower. “Open for me.”
His fingers find my slit, already wet, already eager for him. He spreads me, his thumb rubbing over my clit in a firm, knowing circle. I arch against the wall, a moan tearing from my throat.
“You’re dripping,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “All this talk, all this tension… and here you are, ready for me to fuck you.”
He pushes two fingers inside me, deep and sudden. I cry out, my hips bucking against his hand. He works them in and out, a steady, demanding rhythm, his thumb still pressed against my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, the stretch inside, the sharp pleasure outside. My vision blurs for a second, not with prophecy, but with pure, physical need.
“Come for me,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “Let me feel you shake.”
I don’t fight it. The command isn’t a command; it’s an invitation. I let the pleasure build, let it crest, and when it breaks, my whole body tenses against his hand. A sharp, gasping release, my inner muscles clamping around his fingers. He holds them there, letting me ride it out, his expression fierce and pleased.
When I’m spent, panting against the wall, he withdraws his fingers. He brings them to his mouth, licks them clean, my taste on his tongue. “Mine,” he says again.
Then he undoes his own pants, pushing them down enough to free his cock. It’s hard, thick, already flushed with need. He doesn’t guide it to me gently. He grips my hip, angles me, and presses the head against my entrance.
“Take it,” he says.
I do. I push my hips forward, letting him slide inside. The stretch is immediate, profound. He’s big, and I’m still tight from my climax, but the wetness welcomes him. He pushes deeper, a slow, controlled invasion, until he’s fully seated inside me. We both stop, breathing hard, joined.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his forehead dropping against mine. “You feel… perfect.”
He starts to move. Not fast, not frantic. A deep, grinding rhythm, each thrust pushing him as deep as he can go. The stone wall scrapes my back, but the pain is a distant thing. The focus is him, the feel of him filling me, the heat of his skin against mine. His hands grip my ass, lifting me slightly, changing the angle, and the next thrust hits something deeper, brighter.