I should say no. I should pull away and finish the treatment and leave her to sleep off the medicine.
But the bond is a living thing between us, humming with shared need, and her touch has already rewritten my ability to lie.
I catch her wrist gently. Not restraining—just stilling. ‘If we do this, it has to be your choice. Not pain. Not the bond. You.’
Her head turns just enough that I see her profile, the edge of her jaw, the tension in her throat as she swallows. ‘It is my choice.’
“And you can stop me whenever you want.”
She meets my gaze over her shoulder. Amber bright, fierce. ‘I will not.’
My pulse stutters. Desire slams through me so hard it is almost dizzying.
I slide my hand from her shoulder down her side, slower than I need to be, giving her every chance to pull away. Under my palm her skin is warm. Alive. Her muscles tremble.
Her breath hitches when my hand reaches her hip.
She is still clothed—trousers, travel-worn fabric, practical and infuriating—but her thighs part when my fingers drift between them.
I press my hand there, over the seam, and she arches back into me with a sharp, broken inhale.
There is no mistaking what I am touching now. The heat. The wetness seeping through cloth. The way her body reacts to the smallest pressure like it has been starving.
Zara’s fingers curl around me through my trousers again, bolder now, stroking in a slow, exploratory glide that makes me bite back a groan.
“Still want me to help?” I ask, mouth close to her ear.
“Yes.” The word is almost a sob.
I rub her in small circles through the fabric, using the heel of my hand, thumb finding the spot that makes her whole body jolt. I keep the pressure steady, building a rhythm that matches her breath.
Her lightning flares, bright enough to paint the stone. My water magic surges in response, cooling her skin where it sparks, turning the crackle into sensation that makes her shiver harder.
“Torin—” Her voice breaks. Her hips start to move, chasing my hand.
“That is it,” I murmur. “Take what you need.”
I keep one hand between her thighs, the other still at her wing, fingers smoothing oil along the damaged feathers in slow strokes. The combination makes her shake—pleasure threaded with the relief of pain easing, body finally allowed to feel something other than injury.
Her free hand tightens around me, pumping once, twice, and my control frays to nothing.
I pull her wrist away again, breath ragged. ‘If you keep doing that, I am going to come in my pants like an adolescent.’
She makes a breathless sound that might be a laugh. ‘Good.’
The word shoots heat straight through my veins.
I press a kiss to the side of her neck, right below her ear. Her skin tastes like salt and sun and storm.
Zara shudders violently, and I feel it through the bond—the wave gathering, the break just ahead.
“I am close,” she gasps.
“Let go,” I tell her. “I have you.”
I increase the pressure of my thumb, fastening my rhythm to hers. She cries out, wings twitching, feathers trembling under my other hand.
Her orgasm hits like lightning. Zara goes rigid, breath tearing from her in a sharp cry, and her magic bursts outward in bright arcs that dance over the cave walls.
