I could turn around. I could walk away. I could preserve whatever fragile thing we built last night by not pushing for more.
But I won’t.
He turns slightly when he senses movement, surprise flashing across his face before it breaks into something sharper. Something hungry.
“Cyra?” he asks, voice roughened by steam and disbelief.
I step forward, bare feet against wet tile. The water hits the fabric of my thin nightclothes instantly, plastering it to my skin.
“I need you,” I say, quiet but certain. My voice shakes, not from fear. “Allof you. Please.”
The water roars between us. For a moment he just looks at me – hair dripping, chest rising too fast, eyes gone dark – then he moves toward me, closing the space quicker than thought.
His lips crash against mine in a kiss that devours. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his damp skin as I kiss him back with equal hunger. The steam swirls around us, amplifying every sensation, every touch, every ragged breath.
This is real. This is happening. There’s no magic to hide behind, no excuse of healing or necessity. Just this – wanting him, being wanted in return.
His hands move to my nightclothes, stripping them away, baring me to his gaze. The fabric falls to the floor in a damp heap, forgotten, as his fingers map every inch of my skin. He traces the curves of my body with a hunger that leaves me breathless – the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips, the sensitive skin just below my ribs. His touch isfirm yet reverent, his calloused fingertips sending shivers down my spine as he explores me with a possessiveness that makes me ache.
My hands slide down his chest, fingers exploring the ridges of muscle, the old scars from battles I’ll never know about, before curling around the thick, hard length of him. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating against my lips as I grip him tightly, my thumb brushing over the damp tip where moisture glistens. I tease him, stroking slowly, deliberately, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hands tighten on my hips.
Then I get on my knees to taste him – my tongue swirling in a slow motion that makes him hiss through his teeth.
His control snaps. He guides me back up and leans me against the wall, his body pressing me into the cool tile as his hands roam, frantic and needy. The contrast of temperatures – cold stone at my back, hot water from above, his burning skin against mine – makes my head spin.
His fingers delicately caress between my thighs, his touch soft but demanding, finding me already slick for him. His thumb finds my clit and rubs in circles, first gently, then picking up speed and pressure as I moan, my head falling back.
“Fuck, Cyra,” he growls, his voice hoarse, his breath hot against my ear.
I whimper, my body arching into his touch, my legs trembling as he teases me to the brink. His fingers are curling inside me now, stretching me, preparing me, and the sensation borders on too much.
“Please,” I pant, the word a desperate plea.
He doesn’t make me wait. With a growl, he lifts me, both hands gripping my thighs as he presses me against the tile. I hook one leg over his hip, the other braced against the wall for leverage as he positions himself at my entrance. His forearm supports most of my weight, muscles straining, while his other hand guides himself.
I gasp as he enters me slowly, filling me completely, the stretch exquisite as he seats himself deep. The water pounds around us, the steam swirling in a haze that heightens every sensation, every sound, every touch.
This. This is what I needed. Not just the physical release, but this –being seen, being wanted, being held like I’m precious despite everything I am.
Our kisses turn frantic, desperate, our mouths devouring each other as he moves inside me, his thrusts relentless.
“Talk to me,” he demands, his voice low, his hands gripping my hips tightly enough to bruise. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescents in his skin. “All of you.”
He obliges, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more primal, his body driving into mine with a force that leaves me breathless. The angle hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. “That’s it,” he growls, voice rumbling. “Take it.Take all of me.”
My head spins, my body teetering on the edge of climax as he fills me, throbbing deep inside.
“I want to feel it,” he commands, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. “I want to feel you come apart around me.”
“Zevran—”
I obey without conscious thought, my hands clutching at his shoulders as every sensation, every touch, every thrust amplifies beyond bearing. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
His control shatters. His thrusts become frantic, his body moving with a desperation that matches my own as we teeter on the edge together.
“Cyra,” he groans, his voice breaking as he buries his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “I’m?—”
