He nodded. Then he knelt.
Caspian Ashford, on his knees in front of me, hands at my waist, looking up as if obedience had finally found somewhere better to go.
“Tell me if I am wrong,” he said.
“You’ll know.”
“Then tell me what’s right.”
So I did.
Not right away.
There were too many fastenings, too much fabric, too many places our bodies had to learn they were allowed to want.
Caspian started with the buttons at my throat.
Careful. Exact. Terrible.
By the third button, I caught his wrist.
“If you take any longer, I’m going to assume this is a punishment Quill set you to and leave.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“I’m trying not to rush you.”
“I noticed. The formal will have come and gone and I’ll still be wearing half my clothes at this rate.”
That got the smallest breath out of him. Somewhere between a laugh and an apology.
His thumb slid down my throat to the hollow of my collarbone.
I put his hand where I wanted it.
For one second, he only looked at me.
Then his fingers curled.
Careful ended there.
He kissed down my throat and stopped at every place my breath changed, as if he had been given a map and was dedicated to following it.
Every pause made it worse.
Every permission made him less polished.
By the time his mouth reached my bare shoulder, the blond hair at his temple was sweaty, his breathing uneven, his Mark glowing dark and luminescent on his forearm.
My shirt finally went to the floor.
His followed.
The sight of his bare forearms did something in my core that was almost embarrassing.
Everything tightened.
Ready.
