His breath hitches, his body tensing. With a guttural roar, he finds his release. Hot, thick spurts of cum land on my face, on my breasts, on my stomach. It’s a primal, claiming act and I feel a fierce, triumphant thrill course through me. I am marked. I am his.
He milks the last drops from his cock then leans down, smearing the cum across my skin with his fingers. He scoops up a glob from my cheek and brings it to my lips.
“Clean it up,” he orders.
I eagerly lick his fingers clean, the taste of him salty and potent. He’s watching me, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
“You’re a mess,” he says, a note of fondness in his voice. He leans in, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead he licks a stray drop of cum from my chin in a slow, possessive gesture that sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
He rolls off me, pulling me into his arms. We lie there in a tangle of limbs, our harsh breathing the only sound in the quiet loft. I can feel the sticky mess on my skin, the ache in my muscles, the delicious soreness between my legs. I’ve never felt more used, more claimed, or more alive.
He’s quiet for a long moment, just holding me. I can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my back. It’s a comforting, grounding sound in the aftermath of our frantic coupling.
“Aria,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “I’m not a good man.”
I shift in his arms, turning to face him. His face is in shadow, but I can see the intensity in his eyes. “I know.”
“I’ve done terrible things,” he continues, his fingers tracing a pattern on my arm. “Things that would make you run screaming if you knew.”
“I’m not running,” I say, my voice firm. “I’m here.”
He lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Why?”
Eighteen
Aria
Hisquestionfromthenight before still hangs in the air between us, a ghost in the pre-dawn gloom.Why?
I feel a shift beside me, a subtle tension in the air, and then his gaze. It’s heavy, even in the dim light. He’s awake. Waiting.
My answer is a whisper, spoken to the ceiling more than to him. “Because the silence was louder.”
I don’t know if he understands. I don’t care. It’s the truest thing I’ve said in years.
Now, I open my eyes.
The first thing I notice is the quiet. Not the quiet of the loft which is filled with the low hum of the city and the soft, deep sound of his breathing beside me. I notice the quiet in my head. The grinding static, the hum of nothingness—it's gone. In its place is a profound calm.
The morning light is a pale, gray wash, filtering through the massive industrial windows. My body is a map of the night. A deep, pleasant ache between my legs. The phantom grip of his fingers on my throat. I feel claimed. I have never felt more real.
He is no longer asleep. He is propped on an elbow, watching me, his hair a wild mess, the bruises on his face stark in the morning light. His sharp eyes are fixed on me.
"Good morning, ghost girl," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep and something else—satisfaction.
I turn my head on the pillow, meeting his gaze. My own voice sounds surprisingly steady. "Good morning, Cassian."
He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the line of my jaw, then dipping to the faint bruise blooming on my throat. His touch is light, almost tender, but the memory of his grip from last night flashes through me.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, his thumb stroking the tender skin.
I swallow with a slight wince. "A little."
His eyes drop to my neck, and a flicker of something—regret? triumph?—crosses his face. "Good," he murmurs, the word a contradiction to the question. He leans in and kisses me, a slow, deep, possessive kiss that is nothing like the frantic brutality of the night before.
When he pulls back he studies my face, his gaze intense. "Still here?"
"Still here," I confirm, the words feeling like a vow.
