His mouth finds the skin of my inner thigh, and I nearly fall off the altar.
He chuckles against my skin, the vibration making me gasp. “So responsive,” he murmurs, sounding pleased. “I’ve wondered how you’d react to this. If you’d be as wild and beautiful falling apart for me as you are with everything else.”
“Logan, please—” I’m not above begging at this point, my hands gripping the edge of the altar so hard my knuckles turn white.
“Patience,” he says, but I can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it’s taking him to go slow.
By the time he finally reaches where I need him most, I’m a trembling, desperate mess.
He groans against me like the magic itself is feeding him, his mouth moving with devastating precision. One hand pins my hips down when I try to writhe away from the overwhelming sensation, while the other slips under my thigh, holding me open, commanding me to take everything he’s giving.
When release finally crashes over me, it’s with the force of a tidal wave, washing away everything but sensation and the knowledge that I’m alive, I’m here, and I’m grounded by his touch. He’s been grounding me all night, but this… it’s exactly what I needed after the four trials from hell. Confirmation that what we went through in here brought us closer and changed everything between us, and that everything he said in his office about trying to resist our connection no longer applies.
Only when the aftershocks fade do I realize he’s moved away, helping me straighten my clothes with slightly shaky hands.
“Better?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in the question that makes my heart clench.
“Getting there.” I slide off the altar on unsteady legs, my gaze drifting to the bulge in his jeans that’s grown even larger than before. The sight alone makes my pulse trip, because I want to see him lose control the way he just made me.
My fingers trace a path up his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath my touch. “What about you?”
His hand catches mine, war waging in his eyes. “Not here.”
“Turnabout is fair play.” I step closer, and when my palm cups him through his jeans, his sharp inhale makes electricity buzz beneath my fingertips.
But instead of moving against me, he steps back, the space between us speaking louder than words could ever say. “We need to check your sigil.”
The subject change stings. But the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break, keeps me from pushing.
“Right.” I hold out my hand, trying to ignore how my body still thrums with awareness of him. “The trials. The passages. I passed, right?”
He takes my hand carefully, like he’s handling glass, his thumb tracing the flame patterns on my palm.
“It looks normal,” I say, mostly to fill the charged silence.
“It’s supposed to.” His thumb keeps tracing patterns, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. “The magic is subtle. Hidden. We need to test it.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand immediately, his fingers sliding against mine as he leads me to another door in the chamber—one I didn’t notice before.
“This door leads into the tunnels. Place your palm flat against the stone,” he instructs, moving behind me again. “Push your magic into it. Not fire. Just... intent.”
I press my hand to the cold stone, hyperaware of every place our bodies touch. When I reach for my magic and push my intent through the sigil, the stone ripples like water, and suddenly there’s an opening where solid rock used to be.
“It worked.” I stare at the impossible doorway in wonder.
“Did you doubt me?” His voice is right by my ear, sending those damn shivers down my spine all over again.
“Never.” I turn to face him. We’re so close I can see the way his pulse hammers in his throat, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
The passage beyond beckons, but neither of us moves.
“Come on,” he says finally, his voice tight with the effort of pulling away. “Let me show you how to get to Phoenix Hall.”
“Fine.” I pout, and he enters the passage, leading the way.
We walk through narrow tunnels lit by fiery torches, but the silence isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. Every accidental brush of our hands sends sparks through me—literal and figurative—and I can tell from the way his jaw clenches that he feels it, too.
“Tomorrow night,” he says when we stop in front of a door marked with a phoenix symbol. Then he turns to face me, and the resignation in his expression makes my stomach drop. “But what happened back there can’t happen again.”
