He doesn't break the kiss until I'm literally fighting for breath.
Oxygen has become a distant memory, my lungs screaming for air my mouth can't access while his lips continue their claiming. Stars dance at the edges of my vision—actual stars, lack of oxygen creating fireworks behind my eyes—before he finally,finallypulls back enough to let me gasp.
"Little mouse," he warns, voice carrying harmonics that vibrate through my bones.
His grip on my throat tightens fractionally.
"You just like to be punished, don't you."
It's not a question.
My smirk returns despite—or perhaps because of—the compromised position.
"Well, if it gets me draped across your lap and fucked silly, yes," I manage, voice rough from the intensity of his kiss. "But if you're actually mad, I'll be a good girl and sit in the corner."
I pause, letting the silence stretch.
"Naked, if it adds to the thrill and gets me fucked senseless afterward."
His huff carries exasperation and hunger in equal measure.
But I can see it in those slowly-lightening eyes—the darkness receding as arousal replaces anger, void giving way to the silver I know so well. The hunger that replaces the fury is somehow more dangerous, more focused, morepromisingof consequences I very much want to experience.
We share a look.
The kind of look that communicates volumes without requiring words, that speaks to the particular intimacy of bond mates who have learned each other's needs across trials that should have destroyed them.
"Are you okay?"
The question emerges softer than his earlier aggression, genuine concern surfacing through the possessive display.
"Yes," I assure him, meaning it. Whatever Koi stirred up, whatever confusions the morning has produced, I'mokay. Fed. Informed. Perhaps more confused about my heritage than ever before, but physically, emotionally... okay.
He nods, accepting my assessment.
Then his expression shifts into something that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Then I'm gonna punish you senseless," he declares, voice carrying promise that makes my thighs clench with anticipation. "Andthenwe're talking."
The giggle that escapes me carries genuine delight.
"Oh, I love to be punished."
His eyes darken again—not with void this time, but with the particular intensity of desire that has nothing to do with Duskwalker nature and everything to do with the man who has claimed me body and soul.
The library around us fades into irrelevance.
The feast on the table, the floating candelabras, the books that contain knowledge I'll eventually need to access—none of it matters in this moment. Only him. Only us. Only the particular dance of dominance and submission that we've perfected across countless encounters, each one building on the last, each one teaching us more about what we need from each other.
Grim reappears at the edge of my peripheral vision, tiny form hovering uncertainly as if trying to determine whether intervention is required.
"Greeee?" The inquiry carries obvious concern.
"Out, Grim," Cassius commands without looking away from me.
"Gree."
The little reaper vanishes with the particular wisdom of beings who understand when they're not needed.
