He brushes my wet hair away from my neck, fingers trailing over my pulse point. I feel his breath there, cool against my water-warmed skin, and then his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my throat.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs against my skin.
"It won't be."
"Tell me anyway."
"I will. I promise."
He kisses my throat again, and I feel his tongue trace over my pulse. Then his teeth—just the tips, testing, waiting.
"Please," I whisper.
He bites.
The pain is sharp and bright, just for a second. Then it transforms, Heat floods through me, pleasure blooming from the bite and spreading outward like ripples in water. I gasp, my hands fisting in his wet shirt, my body arching into his.
Through the bond, I feel what he feels. The rush of my blood on his tongue, hot and alive and rich with magic. The relief as the hunger finally eases. The overwhelming rightness of this, of us, of being so intimately connected.
He drinks deeply, one hand cradling my head, the other pressed flat against my lower back, holding me close. I can feel his pleasure as clearly as my own, the taste of me, the heat of the water, the press of my naked body against his clothed one.
It's impossibly erotic. The wet fabric between us. The vulnerability of my throat in his mouth. The way his control is slipping, his hips rolling up against mine in tiny, desperate movements.
"Cadeon," I breathe.
He makes a sound against my throat. Something between a groan and a growl. And he digs in deeper. The pleasure intensifies, coiling low in my belly, and I rock against him, seeking friction.
His hand slides down from my back, over my hip, between my legs. When his fingers find me, I cry out, the dual sensation, his mouth on my throat, his hand between my thighs, almost too much to bear.
"I can feel you," he rasps against my neck, his fingers stroking through my slick heat. "Feel how much you want this. It's incredible."
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He doesn't. He seals the bite with his tongue and moves his mouth lower, sucking at my collarbone while his fingers keep working, finding the perfect rhythm. Through the bond, he knows exactly what I need, can feel my pleasure building and adjusts accordingly.
I'm grinding against his hand now, shameless, desperate. The water sloshes around us with every movement. His clothes are ruined. I don't care. He doesn't care.
"I need you, please." I gasp, reaching for his trousers, fumbling with the fastenings under the water.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Please. I want to feel you."
He helps me with the buttons, and then he's free, hard and ready, and when I sink down onto him we both moan. The sensation is overwhelming. Him inside me, his wet clothes against my skin, the water warm around us, the bond wide open between us so I feel everything he feels.
"Move," he breathes. "Please, Iris. Fucking. Move."
I move.
It's not graceful. Water splashes over the edge of the tub. His shirt bunches awkwardly between us. But it's perfect. Raw and real and desperate in a way that makes my heart ache.
His hands grip my hips, guiding me, meeting my every movement with a thrust of his own. Through the bond, pleasure loops between us endlessly and I feel his sensation layered over mine, his building climax tangled with my own.
He stretches me, and bruises me with his gripping fingers, and lathes me with this mouth. I never knew I needed this. That I was missing this.
"I love you," he gasps, and the words break something open in me. "I love you, I love you, I?—"
"I love you too." I cup his face, kiss him deeply, tasting my own blood on his lips."
