“Oliver.” Strain roughened his words. “Come over here. Kneel at the side of the bed.”
Once again, I did as he commanded without hesitation.
After rolling on a condom, he entered her slowly. The sound she made echoed through the room. Then he began to thrust.
I was learning Ophelia’s sounds, her responses, but Kiernan drawing them from her was different. He fucked her with control, each thrust deliberate, playing her body like an instrument.
“There,” she panted. “God, right there?—”
His hand fisted in her hair, exposing her throat for his teeth. She moaned when he bit down.
I couldn’t stop myself from grasping my own cock.
His pace increased, and a bead of sweat trailed down his spine.
Why couldn’t I look away? What was wrong with me? This was about Ophelia.
“Come,” Kiernan commanded her. “Now.”
She broke. He fucked her through it until she was whimpering, then his own rhythm faltered. His hips snapped once, twice, and he came with a groan that reverberated through me.
He stayed buried in her, chest heaving. Then he lifted his head and looked directly at me.
Our eyes met. His were dark, pupils blown. I felt pinned by that stare—exposed.
What had my face revealed?
He studied me for four heartbeats, then looked away.
I returned to the chair, hard and confused, trying to sort out what had affected me most.
The return walkto Greymarch was silent.
Ophelia leaned against me, exhausted, as Kiernan led us through the tunnel.
When we emerged into the castle, he spoke.
“Get her to bed. I have work to do.”
His words were clipped. The warmth from the club had vanished.
I adjusted my grip on Ophelia. At the last moment, I turned around.
“Kiernan.”
He stopped.
“What you said. What is it you want that I’m not ready for?”
The silence stretched.
“Go to bed, Oliver.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” He turned away. “It’s not.”
He disappeared around a corner, and I was left with Ophelia’s weight beside me and a question I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.
