He pushed the tunic from my shoulders and let it fall, his calloused palms smoothing over my collarbones, down my arms. The touch was reverent, his hunger a palpable force in the room. He bent his head, mouth finding the hollow of my throat. The shock was sudden and sweet, drawing a gasp from me as I arched against him.
“Alaric…”
He answered without words. His hands went to my waist, lifting me easily onto the edge of the desk. The wood was hard beneath me. He stepped between my legs, his body fitting against mine, and the feel of him—hard and thick through the thin barrier of my trousers—made my head spin.
His mouth returned to mine, swallowing my moan. One hand splayed against my lower back, holding me to him, while the other worked at my fastenings. When his fingers slipped inside, sensation crashed through me and I jerked against his hand.
He broke the kiss, eyes locking with mine. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gravelly.
I met his eyes as he pushed my trousers and underthings down my hips, baring me to the warm, flickering light. The air prickled against my exposed skin. His attention lingered on every inch of me, a silent caress that left heat in its wake. Then he knelt, hands on my thighs, spreading them wider.
The first touch of his mouth was a lightning strike.
I cried out, fingers tangling in his hair. He didn’t tease. He devoured. His tongue was relentless—hot, wet, focused—circling, pressing, learning the rhythm that made my thighs shake and my back bow. The desk creaked beneath me. The ship groaned around us. His hands held me open, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of my inner thighs.
Pleasure coiled tight and blazing in my core. It was too much. I tried to pull away, but he held me firm, his mouth working a magic I’d never known. My hips moved on their own, rocking against his face, seeking more. Broken sounds spilled from me—pleas, his name, wordless cries.
“I’m—Alaric, I can’t—”
“You will,” he demanded, his voice rough, vibrating against my skin.
The command shattered what control I had left. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and blinding. I shattered around his mouth, my body convulsing as a long, ragged moan tore free. He didn’t stop, drawing out the waves until they faded into trembling aftershocks.
Boneless and panting, I barely registered him rising. He was still clothed—a frustrating contrast to my nakedness—eyes black with need, lips glistening. He freed himself, and the sight of him—thick, hard, veined—made my mouth go dry.
He guided himself to me, broad head nudging against my entrance, slick with my arousal. He paused, trembling with restraint. “Nerina,” he rasped, my name like a prayer. “If this is too much—”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He pushed forward, slow and relentless, stretching me, filling me completely. The sensation bordered on pain before tipping into something so deep it left me reeling. He seated himself fully, and we went still, joined, bodies pressed close.
Then he moved—deliberate at first, each thrust bolder than the last, learning what my body could take and finding the answer in every shiver.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured.
“And you’re going to enjoy every second of it,” I whispered.
His control shattered.
He withdrew and thrust back in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that drove me against the desk’s edge. The discomfort was nothing against the pleasure—each stroke brushing that sensitive place inside me, building a new, urgent fire. I wrapped my legs around him, meeting him thrust for thrust.
My body responded, every nerve alight, every inch craving more. My climax coiled again, tight and waiting. His rhythm broke, turning wild and desperate. He buried his face against my neck, breath hot and uneven.
Then I felt it—the sting of his fangs grazing my throat, claiming me in a way both primal and visceral. A groan tore from him as he pierced my skin, pain melting into searing pleasure that fed the fire between us. His thrusts grew deeper, more urgent, as if my blood ignited something feral inside him.
I caught his face between my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. Shadows clung to him, veins darkening beneath his skin, pupils blown wide and bright like spilled moonlight.
There was a tension in him that felt earned, not effortless—like he was holding himself together by force.
But I only leaned closer. Every part of me wanted the darkness in him—wanted him.
I arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Alaric…” His name left me as a prayer, a plea I couldn’t shape into words.
He didn’t answer. His body did—every thrust, every groan, every trembling movement speaking devotion and desperation as I surrendered with him, letting the storm rise unchecked.
His hands gripped my hips, lifting me from the desk as if I weighed nothing. My palms flattened against the surface, the wood grain biting into my skin as he turned me over. Lantern light cast our shadows in frantic motion across the wall.
Anticipation shot through me—this was new, exposed, electric. Cool air kissed my bare back as his chest pressed against me.
