The words hang in the air, fragile and true, cutting through the scent of copper and arousal. He did not reply, but I understand. To someone like him, love is a foreign word. And to a slave like me, it is a privilege that not everyone is given the chance to feel.
He freezes for a second, looking down at me with wide, stunned eyes. The vulnerability on his face breaks my heart. Then he kisses me, swallowing my scream, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, mimicking the savage rhythm of his hips.
He pulls out abruptly. I whimper at the loss, but he does not stop.
He grabs me, lifting me off the table as if I weigh nothing. He carries me across the room, my legs dangling, my center throbbing and empty. He slams me against the tall bookshelf, pinning me against the spines of the ancient texts.
"Wrap your leg," he orders, his voice rough.
I hook my left leg over his arm. He hikes it higher, pressing my knee toward my shoulder, opening me completely to him.
He drives upward, impaling me again.
The angle is deeper, sharper. He hits places inside me I didn't know existed. The bookshelf creaks ominously behind me, the wood groaning under the force of our collision. Books tumble from the upper shelves, raining down around us, but we ignore them.
He fucks me wildly, his hips pistoning, his hand gripping my thigh to keep me open. He is feral. He is desperate. He is trying to merge our bodies into a single entity, trying to erase the line where I end and he begins.
"Look at me," he snarls, driving into me so hard my head knocks against the books.
I look at him. His face is a mask of ecstasy and agony. Sweat drips from his brow, landing on my chest.
The pleasure builds, a tidal wave of light and heat rising from the base of my spine. It is agonizing. It is transcendent. It is the only thing that is real.
"Come for me," he growls against my neck, his hips stuttering, his rhythm becoming erratic and frantic. "Come for me, Leora."
I shatter.
My vision goes white. My body convulses around him, my inner muscles clamping down on his shaft, milking him, squeezing him in rhythmic spasms that tear a high, keening wail from my throat.
He shouts, a raw, guttural roar that vibrates against my chest. He drives in one last time, burying himself to the root, and pours himself into me. I feel the pulses of his release, hot and heavy, filling me up, coating my womb.
For a long moment, we just hang there, suspended in the aftermath. He presses his forehead against mine, his breath sawing in and out, mingling with my own.
Then, his strength gives out.
We collapse, sliding down the bookshelf until we hit the floor, a tangle of limbs and sweat and bruised skin.
He holds me. He holds me so tight I can barely breathe, his arms wrapping around me like iron bands. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, and I feel the wetness of his tears against my skin.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice thick. "I'm so sorry."
I stroke his damp, matted hair. "Don't be."
We lie there on the cold stone floor, shivering as the sweat cools on our skin. It is quiet in the panic room. For a heartbeat, we can pretend the world outside doesn't exist. We can pretend we are just a man and a woman in the aftermath of a world shattering ecstasy.
Then, the sound comes.
THUD.
A heavy, reverberating impact against the iron door. The sound vibrates through the floorboards, jarring my bones.
THUD.
The wood groans. The steel bars rattle in their brackets.
"Open up, Imas!" Malek’s voice is muffled but distinct, dripping with cheerful malice. "Don't make me rude."
Imas stiffens against me. The tension slams back into his frame, turning the lover back into the warrior. He pulls away from me, looking at the door. The resignation is back in his violet eyes, but it is harder now. Sharper.
