“Yes, yes. Just don’t stop,” I gasp.
“Tell me if I need to.”
I nod and rock my hips. “I just need to feel you.”
“Gods, you are perfect,” he says, as his lips find mine.
With each stroke, there is a slow increase of pressure that has me moaning and gripping his forearms with all of my strength. My hips meet his with every thrust, seeking more as every sensation peaks.
“I do not know how we fit together, but you take me so well,” he says as he presses himself up until he’s sitting back on his knees, holding my hips to his, and continuing to rock into me. The sensation is beyond words.
My eyes trace the lines of his body, the way his damp hair swings with every gentle thrust, the patterns of scars and tattoos that adorn his skin. He’s perfect. Like he was carved by my own subconscious.
His eyes drop to the place where our bodies meet, and I feel his carnal pride. “You look so beautiful stretched around my swollen cock.”
“Oh god,” I moan, “where did this filthy mouth come from?”
“I speak only the truth.”
Another wave of pleasure builds as his shameless, wild eyes burn into me. My very soul is on display. Fully bare. Fully open.
“Come for me, mek Lysaer,” he says again, pushing me over the edge and into another screaming release.
He’s over the top of me again. Holding my body to his. Rocking into me as my mind breaks. I’m falling. Tumbling through space as my entire being is consumed by a height of sensation that shouldn’t be possible. Through the darkness, I feel Vexar’s pleasure reach a point of near agony as he groans and buries himself in my throbbing center. Vhorathi words fall from his lips. Muscles tremble. And the feeling of complete rightness settles into my bones as he rolls to his side and pulls me to his chest.
46
MESSAGE RECEIVED
VEXAR
AMARA WAKES IN terror again, but instead of flying limbs, her small body shakes as she curls into me, gripping me tightly like I am the only thing she trusts. I am glad to be her safe place. I am glad she does not have to wake alone. But her terror and pain eat through me in the most excruciating way possible.
Eventually, the violent oceans of her mind calm, and she relaxes into me. “It's really over, isn’t it?” she whispers, the warm puffs of her breath dampening my chest.
A scent that is entirely Amara fills my nose, and I press my lips to the top of her head. “It is,” I say. There is a long pause before I add, “I am so sorry.”
“I’ll be ok. Eventually.” She takes a breath. “It’s just going to take time. Time and constantly reminding myself where I am.”
I push her hair back from her face before tucking her head beneath my chin. “At least you did not punch me this morning.”
She huffs a hollow laugh. “No shit. My hands weren’t made for punching stone.”
Shifting slightly, I take her hand in mine and inspect thelingering bruises on her knuckles. She is right, her hands were not made for punching stone, they were made for weaving thread, for healing wounds and saving lives, for soft touches and unrelenting teases. And yet, her path has made sure they are capable of tearing down mountains if needed, and in a way, they already have. She broke through the stone of my own certainty and helped me see the things I was once blind to.
I press a kiss to her knuckles and say, “You are magnificent.”
A few minutes later, she’s sitting and prodding my ribs while peppering me with questions about my injuries.
“I am fine,” I repeat. She still thinks I am hiding my pain. I suppose I am, but the pain is manageable, and it is decreasing quickly.
“I swear, you could be missing an arm and you’d be running around like everything was hunky-dory.”
“Hunk dory?” I ask.
She waves a hand dismissively. “It means ‘all-good’, or something.”
“Well, unless I am fatally injured, I see no issue with letting things be ‘hunk dory’. What is the point in complaining about things that cannot be changed?”
