She’s standing in her dark jeans and a plain white lace bra. I reach behind her, unclasping the delicate lace, and slide the thin straps down her arms. I toss it aside, letting my eyes drag heavily over her bare breasts. Her nipples are already hard and pointed in the cool air of the tower.
She’s bruised. The dark mark on her neck is a stark contrast to her skin. Angry red scratches mar her delicate shoulder. But to me, she’s flawless. She’s a survivor.
I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor in front of her.
She gasps, her hands instinctively coming down to rest heavily on my shoulders to steady herself as I kneel at her feet.
I reach for the metal button of her jeans. I undo the stiff denim and pull the zipper down, sliding my hands over the curve of her hips to push the fabric down her legs. She steps out of them, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of white silk panties.
I press my face flat against her bare stomach, breathing in the scent of her clean skin.
“Cassian,” she whimpers, her fingers tangling desperately in my hair.
Keeping my left arm tucked close to my ribs, I slide my right arm around the back of her thighs, holding her steady. I pressopen-mouthed, burning kisses to her skin. I kiss the jagged little silver scar on her hip. I trace the sharp line of her hipbone with my tongue, committing the taste of her to memory.
I hook my thumb into the thin waistband of the white silk and drag it down.
She’s completely naked now. Trembling, flushed, and perfectly soft. Her pussy is swollen and dripping wet, the moisture glistening in the low light.
I guide her backward until the back of her knees hit the mattress. She sits heavily on the edge of the bed.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you ever stop,” she breathes, her fingernails digging sharply into my shoulders. “Please.”
I bury my face between her spread thighs.
She cries out, a sharp, incredibly beautiful sound of shock and immediate pleasure. She falls back on her elbows, her thighs trembling against my cheeks.
I taste her. She’s sweet, slick with a wetness that tells me she needs this grounding as much as I do. I swirl my tongue directly over her clit, slow and brutally deliberate.
She arches her back, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my face closer. “God, Cassian...”
I draw her swollen clit fully into my mouth, sucking gently. My right hand slides up to cup the soft weight of her ass, kneading the flesh.
She’s losing her mind. Her breathing is a rhythm of ragged gasps and deep moans. Her hips rock against my face instinctively, chasing the wet friction of my tongue.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur against her wet pussy, my hot breath making her shudder violently. “My queen.”
I trace two thick fingers over her slick folds, coating them in her wetness. While my mouth keeps working her clit, I push my fingers slowly, deliberately inside her. She’s incredibly tight, herinner walls clenching hard around my fingers as I stretch her open. I mimic the fast, slick rhythm of my tongue with my hand, curling my fingers upward to stroke the sensitive knot of nerves deep inside her.
She shatters almost instantly.
A ragged, keening wail tears from her throat. Her body goes completely rigid on the mattress as the orgasm rips through her. I hold her steady, drinking her release, swallowing her cries until the last tremor fades.
I stand between her spread knees.
She’s breathless, her chest heaving as she looks up at me.
I reach for the hem of my shirt with my right hand, but as I pull it up, the torn muscle in my left shoulder seizes with a vicious spike of agony. I let out a sharp hiss through my teeth, my left arm locking up.
“Wait,” she says softly, sitting up on the edge of the bed and reaching out. “Let me.”
Her small hands grab the hem of the fabric. She is careful, so incredibly gentle, as she works the shirt up my torso. She guides it over my uninjured right arm first, then carefully navigates the fabric over my head, deliberately avoiding the thick white gauze taped to my left shoulder. She pulls the shirt entirely free and drops it onto the floor.
I stand bare-chested in front of her.
She doesn’t pull away. Her palms drag down my stomach, tracking the hard lines of my abs, before her fingers hook into the metal button of my pants. She pops the button and drags the zipper down, shoving the denim and my boxers to the floor. I kick them away.
