He takes a step toward me and leans against the wall. Towering overme, he braces a thick well-muscled arm on either side.
He takes a deep breath and gently repeats his question, his demand, “Tell me what you need.”
I press a hand to his chest and puff out a breath. “I need to spar.”
“I think we already tried that.” He smiles, placing his hand over mine reassuringly. “But I’m not opposed to another round.”
I eye the small space and consider it. I’m shocked when I find that nothing was broken in our skirmish, but I seriously doubt the rickety furniture adorning the room will make it through another bout.
I check on the darkness inside me, finding it coiled like a snake. It isn’t sleeping but it isn’t roiling either. It waits, for what I have no idea. The feeling is unnerving.
“Where do you find your release when you spar?” he asks. “Is it your control in the ring?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s when I let that control slip, when I let go and lean into the chaos.”
His brows shoot up and he smiles his understanding. He knows the feeling, every Drakai does. Control is life and to lack it often leads to one’s demise. To embrace the chaos is to go against our very nature but to be at ease in that space, to be settled when you lack control, is also necessary and a far more difficult lesson to learn.
“No wonder you are struggling with your lessons.” He smiles wickedly, wrapping a calloused hand around my throat. “Tell me to stop and it ends,” he whispers, giving me a moment to end it before it even begins.
I hold his gaze, saying nothing, willing myself to let that control slip. His hips press against mine, pinning me to the wall of my cabin. I consider that this is the same lesson he taught me when he settled me onto his lap. It is, but it isn’t.
This feels … different. Almost as if we are sparring, but not quite. His hips roll against me, his hard length rocking against the sensitive nub of nerves above my core. I moan at the friction and his hand tightens around my throat.
My fingers tangle in the locks of his hair. He lets go of my neck and collects my wrists, pinning them above my head. I’m vaguely aware that thisis the same position he was holding me in when I woke from my bloody vision, but its meaning is altogether different. He leans into me, his chest pressing against mine, his lips brushing against the ridge of my shoulder in featherlight sweeps.
Closer, I need him closer.
He pushes a hand between us, and the friction of his pants is replaced by his palm. He snakes a single finger against my core, parting me, and my stomach clenches as his breathing quickens against the tingling skin of my neck.
“Kesh,” I whisper, “I want more.”
His body stills against my own, rigid with hesitation, a low rumble forming deep within his chest.
“There is only so much I can give you right now,mi’ajna,” he says, his voice tinged in regret.
I push him back until I can see the dark pools of his eyes then lean toward him with an offering of parted lips, my gaze dipping to his mouth. He tenses, his eyes flicking to my lips then back to my eyes as the rumble in his chest grows. I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin along with all the hesitation spooling in his body. I see the moment he holds himself back from me, and I bury the loss before it snags on the threads of my heart, unwilling to let it spoil what he is willing to give me in this moment.
“I want everything,” I say softly, wholly aware that I have no idea what I am asking for but wanting all of him, nonetheless.
“You ask for too much.” I watch a silent battle rage in his eyes.
“Don’t think about it,” I say, offering him some of his own advice, and before he can protest, I hook my legs around his waist, settling the heat of my core against the thick length beneath his pants.
He presses into me, pushing my back against the wall to hold my weight as his hands hook my thighs right below my ass.
Resting his head against mine he whispers, “You’re already going to hate me for this.”
I don’t want to think about all the ways this can end poorly. I want to tell him there is nothing he could ever do to make me hate him. But right now, I just need him to stay.
“Say stop and it ends,” I tell him, the words fleeing my lungs in a breathy whisper. I push my hand down, grabbing a handful of the hard shaft between us.
Even buffered by the fabric of his pants he shudders at the connection and his hips buck against my arm. With a growl, he spins us around, dropping me onto my cot and draping himself over me. His eyes are ablaze with something akin to the darkness I fight within myself. I wonder what demons haunt the master of shadow.
He drags my hand from between us, bringing it to his lips. Brushing my knuckles against them, he sucks my thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. My core tightens when he pulls it out with a wetpop. He presses his thumb against my bottom lip, my mouth opening at his silent command. My tongue works its way around the digit, just as his did mine. His chest vibrates with a rumble as he watches, before pulling his thumb out with a satisfied smile.
“Good girl,” he says, and those two simple words begin to unravel me.
He circles the sensitive nub above my core with the same thumb, warm and slick, as he presses himself against my entrance. My body clenches and my hips rise to meet him. Frustration frays the edges of my pleasure when I feel the press of the thin fabric of his pants between us.
