But unlike Zayan, I can be a loud motherfucker, and I don’t want anyone else to hear us. This moment is ours alone. So, with every ounce of willpower left in my body, I turn that moan into deep, shaky breaths, muffled enough to stay hidden in this room.
It feels like he wants it too—us locked in our own little bubble, away from the Trials, the fucking goddess, and the constant struggle for survival.
The rhythm he sets is intoxicating, a slow, unhurried dance that pulls me deeper into him. In and out. In and out.
“Do you know why I didn’t die, Gypsy?” he groans after a while, his voice raw.
I can only shake my head, too lost in pleasure to form words.
“Because I wanted to do this with you again,” he murmurs, his eyes fierce and hungry. “I needed to come back to you and this perfect fucking pussy of yours.”
Oh, gods…
I press my thighs tighter around him, pulling him closer, deeper, craving every inch of him inside me. I can’t think, can’t breathe—everything fades away until it’s just him filling me completely.
“You’re everything to me, Gypsy,” he groans, voice low and breathless. “You have no idea how much I need you.”
The pressure inside me builds, an overwhelming force that makes me feel like I’m about to shatter. My nails dig into his shoulder, desperate for something to hold on to as pleasure coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap.
And then the orgasm hits me, crashing over me like a wave, tensing every muscle in my body before shattering me into a million pieces. I curl my toes, roll my eyes back, and press my head hard against the bed.
But nothing can stifle the loud, airy moan that tears from my throat, echoing in the room long after I’ve peaked. Zayan feels it, his rhythm faltering as I tighten around him, my body clenching in ecstasy. His eyes widen at the sight of me lost in pleasure, and it pushes him over the edge.
He grips my hips harder, pulling me even closer, burying himself deep inside me as he reaches his own climax. A guttural sound escapes him—a mix of a groan and a sigh—as his body shudders against mine, heat flooding me from within.
It would all be perfect, absolutely perfect, if it weren’t for the fact that the doors to the quarters are wide open. Fabien and Vinicola stand right in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified.
“Is he… Fuck!” Fabien stops dead in his tracks. “They were fucking!”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Vinicola yelps. “Oh, thank goodness! He is okay!”
Fabien yanks Vinicola by the collar, dragging him away from the doorframe. “Give them some space, you dimwit,” he groans, closing his eyes as he pulls harder.
But even after he slams the door shut, and I glance at Zayan, grinning from ear to ear, I can still hear Vinicola’s voice ringing through the wood. And let me tell you, that bard can scream.
“It was a good cry, everyone! Mr. Zayan is okay!”
A loud cheer erupts outside the door, and the whole crew celebrates. Zayan and I share a smirk, too.
And we celebrate as well. In our own way.
Two more times, to be precise.
37
Fabien
The whole crew’s celebrating. Even Ridley, who hasn’t so much as sipped anything harder than water since the last drink he shared with my father, is cradling a full pint. All because Zayan’s going to make it.
And I’ll be damned if I don’t feel something myself. Not happiness, not that. But… something close.
“Don’t lie,” Vinicola says, bouncing up beside me with a grin that’s wide as the sea. He tries to shoulder-bump me but only ends up brushing against my arm, like some overeager, oversized dog who’d be just as happy slinking up to anyone else.
I eye him, flatly. “I’m not lying.”
But I am lying to him. Whatever satisfaction is brewing in me, it’s gotsomethingto do with relief over Zayan. It touched me. A deep part of me I thought long buried.
“You are,” he insists, like he’s got a sixth sense. “I can see it as clear as day: you’re happy he didn’t die.”
