His hips piston faster, driving into me at a punishing pace, hitting that perfect spot inside me again and again until I'm teetering on the knife's edge of release. I'm so close, my whole body drawn tight as a bowstring, my cunt clenching frantically around his driving length.
"Come for me," Kaan demands, grinding against me, rubbing against my swollen clit. "Now, Neslihan. Come on my cock like a good girl."
His filthy words are my undoing. With a keening cry, I shatter, my orgasm crashing over me in a tidal wave of pure ecstasy. Distantly, I hear Kaan roar as my fluttering inner muscles trigger his own release, feel the hot rush of his seed filling me as he pulses deep inside me.
We cling to each other through the aftershocks, sweat-slicked and gasping, utterly spent. Slowly, gently, Kaan releases my wrists, brushing tender kisses across the reddened skin. He doesn't pull out, seemingly content to stay sheathed inside my still quivering body as we catch our breath.
"Kaan," I murmur, my voice utterly wrecked. "That was..."
"Exquisite," he purrs, voice whisky-rough. "Though I think you can give me at least one more, hm?"
Before I can gather the wits to reply, he buries his face between my thighs once more and I'm lost...
A throat clears behind us.
I jerk upright, yanking my dress down, heart thundering.
A young servant stands in the doorway, holding the tray of desserts like a shield. His face is the color of milk.
"I—ah—the dessert, Lady Neslihan?—"
Kaan wipes his mouth with his thumb, glances at the servant, and says smoothly, "I was already enjoying my dessert."
The poor boy flees as if he's been chased by demons.
I cover my face with both hands. "You are impossible."
He leans back in his chair, completely unrepentant. "And you taste better than any dessert anyway."
I'm about to respond—something witty, something cutting, something to hide how shaky my legs still feel—when the air shifts. A presence. A pull.
The door opens again. Yasar steps inside.
"Well, isn't this cozy," he drawls, a knowing smirk playing about his lips. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
He's wearing a fitted black coat embroidered with silver thread, dark trousers, boots polished to a shine. His hair is tied back, jaw clean-shaven, face freshly healed—the opposite of how he left Kaan after their fight.
He takes one look at me, then at Kaan, and his nostrils flare.
"I was drawn here," he says, voice low. "Your emotions were... loud."
Mortifying heat floods my cheeks. He means the sex. He felt it. He felt me.
I grip the table, willing my body not to react. Not to tremble. Not to lean toward him when something in the bond tugs—sharp and wrong and pulling at the edges of my control.
Kaan notices instantly. His entire body tightens.
Yasar steps closer, eyes locked on me. "Your feelings were… overwhelming."
Kaan stands.
The air crackles—pressure building, tension coiling, two storms preparing to collide.
Yasar smirks. "Touched a nerve?"
Kaan moves first. But this time, there's no explosive lunge. No reckless rage.
He strides forward, grabbing Yasar by the coat and shoving him backward with controlled moves. Yasar pivots and blocks, sending Kaan stumbling only a step before Kaan recovers and twists, landing a heavy strike to Yasar's ribs.
