We don’t speak much after that.
There’s just breath.
And skin.
And the rustle of fabric falling away.
When he leans over me, braced on those powerful arms, bone spurs catching the light, eyes locked on mine—I forget everything else. There is no war. No fame. No fear. Just this moment.
Just us.
His throbbing cock hovers over my quivering entrance. I reach out and stroke the protruding spurs on the crown, and a white pearl appears. He pushes his way in, and I gasp as he fills every inch of my pussy. His spurs flex in and out like a nestling cat’s claws. It’s perfect.
“Liora,” he says, like it’s the first time. Like it means more now than ever before.
I arch into him, feeling his weight, his heat, the slow press of his devotion. We move together, not with urgency, but with something deeper—like we’re stitching together all the broken pieces we never had time to fix.
His lips find mine again—softer this time. Slower.
He’s not rushing.
He’s remembering.
And so am I.
Every kiss is a thread. Every breath a promise. Every sigh a surrender.
We don’t chase the high.
We fall into it, together.
And when I come apart beneath him, it’s not about climax. It’s about connection. About letting someone see every shattered piece of you—and still choosing to stay.
His claws skim my back in careful, practiced arcs. He’s gentle with them now, something that still surprises me. Three years ago he used to touch me like he was afraid I’d break. Now he touches me like he’d break himself first.
“Liora,” he murmurs again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are molten—gold and amber and something deeper under it all, something soft that he still doesn’t know how to name. His breathing stutters when my bodice loosens, the fabric parting enough for his thumb to sweep over bare skin. Every brush of his fingers feels like ignition, like I’ve been flammable the entire night and only needed this spark.
“You are…” he starts, then stops like the words fail him.
“Yours,” I say for him.
His eyes flicker. “Yes.”
He lifts me before I can form another reply, hands firm beneath my thighs, my breath catching as he pins me gently against the dressing-room wall. My skirt pools and rustles around us. His forehead comes to rest against mine, breaths mingling, the whole world narrowing to two hearts thundering in the same rhythm.
“I have imagined this,” he confesses. “Every night since the Maze. But imagination is weak. You are?—”
“Real,” I whisper.
His thumb traces my bottom lip. “More than real.”
I kiss him again, slow this time. Savored. My fingers thread into the short dark strands of his hair; his hands anchor me, strong but careful. He kisses like he fights—strategic, consuming, intensely present—but tonight there’s something else underneath it. Devotion, maybe. Hunger sharpened by awe.
We break only when we both run out of air, foreheads still touching.
