His eyes flare with heat I’ve learned to recognize. “What are you interested in?”
“You.” I push him down onto the bedding, watching the controlled fall of his body, the way his muscles flex as he catches himself. “I’m interested in you.”
He reaches for me, but I catch his wrists, pressing them back against the blankets. His eyes narrow—not with displeasure, but with interest. The assassin who has spent centuries in control, allowing someone else to direct the encounter.
“You’ve taken me in desperation.” I lower myself over him, straddling his hips. “In crisis. In the moments when death pressed close and there was no time for anything but survival.”
His hips shift beneath me, pressing upward. I feel him hardening through the thin fabric that separates us.
“I want to take you in clarity.” I release his wrists, straightening to pull my shirt over my head. The cool air of the shelter raises goose bumps across my skin. “In choice. In the full knowledge of what we are and what we have become.”
His hands rise to my waist—not grabbing, not controlling, simply touching. Palms sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin with predatory attention.
“Then take me.” His voice has dropped to a soft growl. “I’m not stopping you.”
I lean down, pressing my mouth to his throat. His pulse jumps beneath my lips—the only sign of his control fraying. I trace my tongue along the tendon, tasting salt and ash and the particular chemistry that has become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
His hands slide up my back, fingers splaying across my shoulder blades. The touch is possessive even in restraint—claiming without demanding, holding without caging. I bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and the sound he makes sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Off.” I tug at his remaining clothes. “I want to feel you.”
He complies with efficient movements, shedding fabric until there’s nothing between us but air and heat. I take a moment to look at him—the lean, lethal build, the ash-scars tracing patterns across bronze skin, the evidence of his desire standing rigid against his stomach. He’s beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful. Engineered for purpose. Refined through use.
Mine.
The thought arrives without permission. Possessive. Absolute. I channel it into action, pressing my palm flat against his sternum and pushing him back down when he tries to rise.
“Not yet.” I shift lower, trailing kisses down his torso. His muscles jump beneath my lips. “I want to taste you first.”
His exhale carries what might be a curse. His hands fist in the blankets beneath us as I work my way down his body—kissing, licking, biting marks into skin that will heal too quickly. I want to leave evidence of this. Want him to carry the memory of my mouth for hours after the marks fade.
I trace my tongue along the ridges of his hip bones. His stomach tenses, muscles cording beneath bronze skin. When my breath ghosts over his cock, his whole body shudders.
When I reach the base of him, I pause. Look up at him through my lashes. His jaw is clenched, tendons standing out in his neck, eyes burning with barely contained want.
“Tanith.” My name emerges rough, almost warning.
I wrap my fingers around him and watch his eyes flutter closed. He’s hot in my grip, hard, already leaking at the tip. I stroke once, twice, learning the weight and texture of him in this new context—not desperate survival, but deliberate exploration.
Then I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
His hips jerk. A sound tears from his throat—half growl, half groan. His hand flies to my hair, not pushing, holding. Anchoring himself as I work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper with each stroke.
He tastes like ash and salt and a deeper musk beneath. I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, and feel his thighs tremble beneath my hands. The assassin who has killed without flinching, undone by my mouth.
I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting him feel the heat and wet of me surrounding him. His grip in my hair tightens. His breathing fractures into ragged gasps. I can feel the tremor running through him—the effort of not thrusting, of not taking, of letting me set the pace.
“Enough.” The word is strained. He tugs at my hair, pulling me up. “If you continue, this will end before it properly begins.”
I let him draw me up his body, let him roll us so I’m beneath him. The shift in position sends a thrill through me—the weight of him pressing me into the bedding, the heat of his skin against mine, the hard length of him nudging against my thigh.
“I want you.” He braces himself above me, one hand sliding between my thighs. His fingers find me slick and ready, and his expression shifts—satisfaction edged with hunger. “I want to feel you come apart around me.”
His thumb circles my clit, and my back arches off the bedding. The sensation spirals outward, heat radiating from that single point of contact. He slides two fingers inside me, curving them to find the spot that makes me gasp, and works me with the same relentless focus he brings to everything.
“You’re so wet.” His voice is rough velvet against my ear. “So ready for me.”
“Then stop talking and fuck me.”
