“Yes.”
One rough pull and the fabric slid down her hips. His mouth followed, teeth grazing her skin as if he could brand her with need alone.
She trembled, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Tory—”
He looked up once, breath hot against her. A low, guttural sound tore from his chest. Then he lowered his head again, devouring her like a man starved, dragging a broken moan from her lips.
“Come here,” she gasped, back arching against the wall.
He rose in a flash, lips trailing fire up her waist, chest pressed to hers, and ripped his shirt over his head. The fabric hit the floor and he was on her again, mouth crushing hers, hands gripping her hips hard.
Her tunic laces tangled in her fingers, but he didn’t wait—he tore them loose himself, pulling the fabric apart until she was bare against him. His breath hitched, almost a groan, before his mouth closed over her breast, rough, worshipping, relentless.
She tipped her head back with a cry, and he growled against her skin, “Mine.” And again, lower, desperate, starved— “Mine.”
Before she could answer, he dropped to his knees again, dragging her tunic wide as his mouth claimed her, unashamed. She clutched at the rafters, at his hair, at anything that might anchor her as the world fell away.
“Viktor—” It was broken, her hips bucking helplessly into his hold.
He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her until her breath shattered. His grip locked on her thighs, keeping her open, keeping her his.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry that threatened to break free, her body trembling against him as he drove her higher.
Every stroke, every lick, was fevered, as if he’d sworn his life to unmaking her in this moment alone. Her knees gave out, but he held her there, devouring her until she broke.
Shaking, she collapsed into his arms, dragging him up to her, lips crashing against his. Salt, sweat, the taste of her still on his tongue—it was all there, wild and unrepentant.
He pressed his forehead to hers, laughter low and warm against her lips.
“Tell me, my queen—have I pleased you?”
Her fingers slipped to his jaw, stroking along the rough line of stubble. Breathless, defiant, she murmured, “I’m not finished with you yet.”
His fingers threaded in her hair, mouth claiming her neck, her collarbone—her lips parting for him again when—
“Viktor?”
They froze.
The voice came from the ladder.
“Dask, Gabriel,” Amerei hissed, half-buried laugh breaking through her gasp.
“What?” Gabriel called back, suspicious.
Viktor’s brows shot up, fire still in his eyes. He bent close, lips grazing her ear as he growled, “This is not over.”
“Tonight,” she whispered back, fierce as a vow.
His smirk curved dangerous.
“Tonight. But quiet.”
They stole one last kiss, hot and lingering, before he called down, rough-voiced, “We’ll be there in a moment.”
He found his shirt thrown across the side of the bed and yanked it on. From his bag, he drew a small sachet and shook it once.
