“Commander,” she breathed, almost a dare.
His eyes burned.
“Queen.”
Then he was on her—fingers digging into her waistband, his other hand locking at the nape of her neck. She rose into him with equal force, crashing against him like they’d been waiting hours for this moment.
The kiss broke ragged, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath clashing.
“If I close my eyes,” he rasped, “I can still see the forest where I first saw you.”
Her laugh was breathless, wild, her fingers tearing at the ties of her tunic.
“When I was still a handmaiden,” she gasped, tugging his mouth back to hers, “and you were still a scout.”
His hand stayed at her neck as his mouth wandered lower, down her collarbone until her breasts spilled free. She tugged at his uniform—he dragged it over his head in one swift motion, his mouth claiming her skin again before the fabric hit the ground.
“I’ve loved you… since the moment I first saw you.”
He sank to one knee at the shadowed edge of the basin, palms sliding up the backs of her thighs. Her tunic fell away in a rush, pooling at her feet. His mouth lingered at the soft plane of her belly, as if sealing a future he couldn’t yet speak. For a heartbeat he stilled—memorizing, almost worshiping—before the need to have her broke through.
Her leggings slowed him, stubborn against her skin. He gripped the fabric and tore it down in one fierce pull.
His palms climbed back—over calves, over knees—until they locked at her waist, hauling her up onto the granite lip of the basin.
She gasped at the cold stone, but he was already stepping between her legs, the warmth of him closing in, water murmuring low at her back. His hands slid up her thighs, heat chasing away the chill.
“The night you brought me back to Sevrak,” she panted, words spilling like shattered glass, “you ran yourself half-dead. I went to Gabriel’s tent—stripped you of your armor…”
The smell of iron, wet leather, buckles clattering in the dark—it all burned back to life.
“I’ve been around soldiers all my life. But I never wanted a man like that. Never.”
His lips pressed hard to her throat.
“You stripped me,” he rasped. “And saved me.”
Her breath hitched, bright.
“Then in my tent,” she whispered, tightening around his hips as his fingers pressed, slow and torturous, “the night we fell asleep together—your breath on my neck, the way you held me—”
Her voice broke, raw and aching.
“I loved you then. I swear I loved you then.”
His brow pressed to hers as he eased into her, inch by aching inch, until her lips trembled in a moan. The world narrowed to that stretch, that heat. His hips began to drive, each thrust deeper, harder, eyes locked on hers.
“You almost kissed me… at the tavern,” she gasped, the memory crashing through—wood under her palms, ale and smoke, his shadow leaning close. “Gabriel came in—”
“Fecking Gabriel,” he growled, crushing the corner of her mouth like he could erase the almost.
“Fecking Gabriel,” she echoed, a breathless laugh breaking into a sigh.
“That night I let myself imagine—you. Like this.”
“Like this?”
He thrust harder. A cry tore from her throat, pleasure rippling through her, her body arching against him.
