“Yes,” she breathed, and felt his satisfaction through the warmth as he claimed her mouth properly.
His kiss was possessive, demanding, leaving no room for thoughts of Malus or marks or midnight compulsions. There was only Eliam, his hands in her hair, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, the solid presence of him grounding her in the present moment.
When he pulled back, she was breathing hard, her hands fisted in his shirt.
“Better?” he asked, though the satisfied curve of his lips said he already knew the answer.
“Getting there,” she managed.
“Then I’ll have to work harder.” His hands moved to the laces of her dress. “Until you can’t remember anything but this. But me.”
And for the first time since waking at the border stones, the fear loosened its grip, replaced by something much more immediate and infinitely more pleasant.
His fingers worked the laces with deliberate slowness, each pull making the dress loosen incrementally. The anticipation built with every movement, making her breath come shorter, her skin hypersensitive to every brush of his knuckles through the fabric.
“You’re going too slow,” she complained, though her voice came out breathier than intended.
“Am I?” His mouth found her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point. “I told you I was going to take you apart. That requires patience.”
The dress finally fell loose enough that he could push it from her shoulders. The cool air raised goosebumps across her exposed skin, but his hands followed immediately, warm and possessive as they traced the curve of her shoulders, down her arms.
His mouth moved lower, tracing the edge of where her dress still clung to her chest. Each kiss was deliberately placed, mapping territory he’d already claimed but seemed determined to mark again. When his teeth closed over the soft skin above her breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, she gasped and arched beneath him.
“Every time you feel afraid,” he said against her skin, “I want you to touch these marks and remember who you belong to. Remember whose bed you’re in. Whose hands are the only ones allowed to touch you.”
His fingers hooked into the dress, pulling it down and off with more impatience now. She was left in only her undergarments, and those didn’t last long under his focused attention.
“Still thinking about him?” he asked against her ear, and she could hear the dark satisfaction when her breath hitched.
“Trying not to,” she admitted, because the image of Malus waiting beyond the border kept flickering behind her eyelids.
“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”
He turned her suddenly, pressing her face-down onto the bed. The unexpected movement made her gasp, her hands twisting in the sheets. “Beautiful,” he murmured and she felt him move behind her, solid and warm, his hands running down her spine with possessive intent.
“Up,” he commanded, his hands finding her hips, guiding her to her knees while keeping her chest pressed to the mattress.
The position made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She could feel his gaze on her, taking in every inch of exposed skin, and her face flushed hot against the sheets.
His hands traced the backs of her thighs, up over the curve of her ass, deliberate and claiming. When he pulled her undergarments down and off, the cool air against her heated flesh made her shift restlessly.
“Stay still,” he said, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades to keep her in place.
She tried, but the anticipation was too much. She could feel him behind her, still clothed, just watching. The power dynamic—her naked and exposed while he remained in control—made the warmth in her chest pulse frantically. It should have frightened her, but instead, it grounded her. This was Eliam. This was safe. This was choosing to give up control instead of having it stolen.
When his fingers finally touched her, sliding through her the wetness between her thighs, she moaned into the mattress. The angle let him go deeper, find spots that made her whole body jerk with sensation.
“Such sweet sounds you make,” he said with dark satisfaction. “I’ll never get enough.”
She wanted to respond, to say something clever, but then his thumb found her clit and her thoughts scattered. He worked her with focused intent, building her up with steady pressure that had her pushing back against his hand, seeking more.
“Please what?” His thumb circled her clit with barely-there pressure. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” she gasped. “I need you.”
“You have me.” Another circle, still too light. “Be specific.”
“I need you inside me,” she managed, her face flushing at the words. “I need you to stop teasing and just—”
