When I returned to his side, I didn't hand him the cup immediately. Instead, I knelt beside his chair, holding the chalice ready but waiting for his direction. The position felt perfect—close enough to serve, low enough to show proper deference.
"Very good," he murmured, and the approval in his voice made warmth bloom in my chest. His fingers threaded through my hair, a gentle touch that somehow felt more intimate than the most passionate kiss. "Stay there."
He accepted the wine with his free hand, taking a slow sip while his other hand continued its lazyexploration of my scalp. The combination of serving and being petted sent strange currents through my body—not arousal exactly, though that simmered beneath the surface, but something deeper. Contentment. Rightness. The bone-deep satisfaction of being exactly what someone else needed.
"There's fruit on the table as well," Kaelen said after a moment, his voice carrying subtle instruction.
I fetched the platter without being told, selecting the ripest grapes and arranging them carefully in my palm before returning to my position beside his chair. When I offered one up to his lips, the way he accepted it—teeth brushing my fingertips, tongue darting out to catch the juice—made my breath catch in my throat.
"Perfect," he said softly, and the word went straight to my cock despite the entirely domestic nature of what we were doing.
We continued like that as the sun tracked across the sky—me kneeling beside his chair, offering wine and fruit and the simple pleasure of being attended to, him accepting my service with touches and quiet words of approval that made me feel more valued than any military commendation ever had.
It wasn't sexual, not directly. But there was an undercurrent of power exchange that made every interaction charged with significance. The way he never had to ask for what he wanted, trusting that I would anticipate his needs. The way I found myself cataloging his preferences, learning the subtle signals that indicated satisfaction or desire for something different.
When he finally set aside his empty chalice and looked down at me with those storm-grey eyes that seemed to see everything, I was already half-hard from the sustained intimacy of serving him.
"You're learning quickly," he observed, fingers still moving through my hair in slow, hypnotic strokes.
"It doesn't feel odd,” I admitted. "It feels good.”
The words hung between us, more honest than I'd intended to be. But Kaelen's hand stilled in my hair for just a moment before resuming its gentle motion, and I thought I saw something soften in his expression.
"Good," he said simply. "Because we're just getting started."
The promise in his voice made anticipation coil tight in my belly. Whatever he had planned for the days ahead, whatever new aspects of our dynamic he intended to explore, I was ready for all of it.
More than ready. Eager.
Chapter
Eleven
KAELEN
The quill felt awkward in my fingers as I tried to capture something of what these past days had brought—the subtle transformation that occurred when theory became practice, when academic understanding gave way to lived experience. My journal lay open before me, filled with observations that had started academic and grown increasingly... personal.
Day seven of the bond. The militant continues to demonstrate remarkable adaptability to submissive positioning. Physical responses suggest complete comfort with power exchange dynamics...
I set the quill down with a frustrated sigh. The words felt cold, inadequate, like trying to describe sunrise using only measurements of light and heat. How could scholarly language capture the way Rion's breathing changed when I commanded him? The way his pupils dilated with need when I guided him to hisknees? The soft sound he made—part sigh, part surrender—when my hands found the places that made him shiver?
Some experiences resisted documentation. Some truths were too intimate for ink and parchment. Perhaps Elyon’s poets had a better chance of capturing what I felt.
The bond itself seemed to pulse with gentle disapproval at my attempt to dissect it. This connection we'd forged belonged to us alone—not to academic study, not to the advancement of theoretical knowledge, not to anyone who might someday read these careful observations and think they understood what couldn't be understood from the outside.
I pushed it all aside, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of reducing our intimacy to research notes. Whatever this was between Rion and me, it deserved better than just analysis.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made the bond sing with anticipation. I knew that particular rhythm—the measured stride of someone who'd been drilling formations all day, the slight heaviness that spoke of fatigue held in check by discipline and purpose.
Rion.
My heart rate picked up before he even appeared in the doorway, the bond humming with shared awareness that made me acutely conscious of his proximity. This moment—when his duties ended and he returned to me—had become the focal point of my days. More eagerly anticipated than meals, moresatisfying than successful research, more necessary than sleep.
He filled the doorway like a vision conjured from my deepest desires: tall and lean, dust from the training yards streaking his dark hair, sweat dampening the strong line of his throat where his tunic lay open. The scent of honest labor clung to him—leather and steel and the particular musk of a man who'd spent hours pushing his body to its limits.
"I'm filthy," he said by way of greeting, though his smile suggested he didn't mind my obvious appreciation of his disheveled state. "I need a bath before I'm fit for civilized company."
"You're always fit for my company," I replied, rising from my desk to close the distance between us. "But I have a better idea. Let me help you with that bath."
