Before he had a chance to respond, I pressed my lips against his, and that was all the incentive he needed. Witha groan, he took hold of my hips and pressed me against him, devouring my offered mouth with an intensity that left me utterly breathless.
His hands were so careful—almost reverent—sliding up my back, into my hair, holding me in place as if he was afraid I’d slip through his fingers. I tasted salt on his lips, which only registered a moment later as my own tears. I was crying, but I didn’t know why; maybe from relief, maybe from terror, maybe from the way he held me, like I was holy. Our bodies collided in a heat neither of us could resist, but there was a restraint this time, as though he was holding back Armageddon with pure muscle and intent.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured softly.
I hadn’t realized it. My body vibrated against his like I was humming at some impossible frequency. His thumb found the corner of my mouth, tracing the edge, and the carefulness undid me more than any violence could.
“I was so worried about you,” he said, and the words came out strange, syllables thick with something he could barely control. “I saw Nythor take you through Ilythas' eyes—” He stopped, his jaw was flexing, as if he could bite the memory away.
I ran my hands over his chest; his muscles were so hard and chiseled. “I’m here,” I replied, unable to resist the urge to kiss his pecs. “You don’t have to be careful. I want—” The rest got lost in his mouth as he lifted my head by my chin, desperate and tender at once.
He hoisted me as if I weighed nothing andset me on the bed. His eyes burned gold, then flickered with something darker at their edges.
"We shouldn't," he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. He drew back, but his hands lingered at my waist, trembling. "If the black takes me, I could hurt you." The confession seemed to pain him physically, his jaw clenching as if fighting the darkness even now. "I can feel it, Ella. Always waiting. And when I want you like this—" He shook his head, throat working. "I won't risk you. Not after everything. Not ever."
I should've been the one hesitating after what I'd been through. Instead, my body arched toward his, craving his touch like oxygen. "What if it doesn't win?" I touched his chest where his heart hammered wildly beneath my palm. "What if this is stronger?" The heat between us felt like its own kind of magic, bright against whatever shadows haunted him.
His mouth twitched, not a smile exactly, but something raw with longing and fear. "You do not understand what I am," he whispered, even as he leaned imperceptibly closer.
"Then teach me," I said, my voice dropping to match his. I slid my hand up to his neck, feeling his pulse race. "We go slow. You watch for the shadows. If you feel anything pulling you under, we stop."
He searched my face, his expression so vulnerable it made my chest hurt. "You would trust me with that? After what you've seen?"
"I already am." My heart thudded so violently I wassure he could feel it in the air between us. "We won't know unless we try."
For a moment, he was perfectly still, like a statue with a raging tornado trapped inside. Then his shoulders eased the smallest fraction, surrender and determination mingling in his eyes. He took my hand and pressed it to his throat, where his pulse beat hot and steady against my fingers. "Say the word, and I stop," he vowed, his voice rough with need and fear. "At once."
“Deal,” I whispered, surprised at the steadiness of my voice, and at the heat curling low in my belly. “Now kiss me before I lose my nerve.”
His exhale shook. “Precious Ella,” he said, like a prayer and a surrender in one. The darkness in his gaze receded to amber, and he bent, careful and controlled, holding himself like a drawn bow he refused to loose.
So he kissed me again, even slower this time. There was no rush. He worked his way down my throat, his mouth gentle, like he was savoring every inch he was conquering; he thumbed the tear-tracks from my jaw and then just held my cheek in his palm, large enough to cup the whole side of my face. He kissed the spot where my pulse thundered. Each touch was a small worship.
My hands got greedy; I was mapping the terrain of his ribs and abs. They were so taut, so thick, it should have been illegal. Their hardness was in stark contrast to my pliable flesh. He kissed me again, even slower this time.
Gently, carefully, almost reverently, he slid my dress up, slowly, baring my legs inch by inch. I heard the clatteras my shoes hit the floor. The world outside narrowed to two points of collision: his bare fingers on my skin, and his mouth, now at the hollow of my collarbone.
His reverence was a kind of madness. If he’d ripped me apart, ravished me with immortal violence, maybe it would have been easier to bear. But he didn’t. He went slow—agonizingly, exquisitely slow—like he was imprinting each new exposed inch of me on his memory for the last time.
“Breathe,” he whispered, and I realized I’d stopped.
He unhooked the clasp at my shoulder, and the whole dress slipped, pooling at my waist. My breasts were bare; I saw his eyes change, black shot through with gold, and a kind of awe overtook his hunger. He bent, taking a nipple in his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and I gasped at the rush of sensation.
This was the opposite of annihilation. It was creation, raw and desperate.
I squeezed my thighs around his sides to be closer. He traced my spine, followed every vertebra, memorizing it. When he slid his hand between my legs, he found me already soaked and pulsing. He made a sound not meant for human throats, something that vibrated all the way into my soul.
He slid two fingers inside, a lazy, unhurried rhythm, and I bucked, needing more even as I wanted to stay like this forever. He set the pace, and I let him, blissfully helpless against every careful invasion.
“Tell me,” he growled, “if it’s too much?—”
“More. Please,” I pressed out; it was a demand, a hunger, not a plea. I wanted everything.
He pressed the heel of his hand against my clit, and I nearly screamed. The pleasure was so sharp it teetered into pain. I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, and for a second, I wondered if I might tear the skin. I wanted to. I wanted to leave marks.
His lips found mine again, kissing away whatever sounds I made. Sweat beaded on his brow. When I came, it was with a violence that bent me nearly backward off the bed, and he held me together with both arms, not letting go for a second, not even as I broke against him.
He gave me a moment to catch my breath before he rose to take off his pants and shirt. I took his cue and scooted back on the bed, losing the rest of my dress in the process. Unabashed, I opened my legs for him. His eyes were molten lava when they caught on my center.
