"I need a second," he whispered, his voice raw. "You're—this is—I need to just feel you for a second."
I understood. This wasn't just sex. This was trust. Vulnerability. The terrifying act of letting someone see you completely.
I ran my hands up his back, feeling the scars beneath my palms, the places where violence had marked him. "I'm here," I whispered back. "I'm right here with you."
He shuddered, and I felt the tremor run through him into me, our bodies so connected that I couldn't tell where his response ended and mine began. We stayed like that, joined and still, breathing together, learning the shape of this new thing we'd become.
"I need to move," he said, his voice strained. "Can I—"
"Yes." I rolled my hips experimentally, and we both gasped at the sensation. "God, yes, move."
He started slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, each thrust deliberate and controlled. But I felt the tremor in his arms, the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back.
"Don't hold back," I told him, my hands sliding down to grip his ass, pulling him deeper. "I won't break."
The next thrust came harder, the angle changing just slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that spot deep inside that made white light burst behind my eyelids. I cried out, unable to stop the sound, and felt his whole body respond—a shudder running through him.
"There," he breathed against my throat, and I heard the wonder in his voice. "Right there. I can feel you tightening around me when I—" He did it again, that same perfect angle, and my back arched involuntarily. "Yes. Like that."
He set a rhythm that built slowly, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, reading my body's responses like a language only he could speak. When my breathing quickened, he adjusted. When my nails raked down his back, he groaned and gave me more. The sound of our bodies moving together filled the room—skin against skin, the slick slide of him inside me, the desperate gasps we couldn't contain.
I felt the pleasure building in waves, each one cresting higher than the last. My thighs trembled where they gripped his waist. The tension coiled tighter in my core, spreadingoutward until every nerve ending felt electrified. I was aware of everything—the weight of him above me, the flex of muscle beneath my palms, the way his long hair brushed against my shoulders, the heat of his breath against my collarbone.
"I need—" I gasped, not even sure what I was asking for, just knowing I needed more, needed something to push me over the edge I was teetering on.
He understood. One hand slid between us, his calloused fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy, and the dual sensation—him inside me, his fingers circling that bundle of nerves—made me scream his name.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough with strain. "I can feel how close you are. You're so tight around me I can barely—" His words broke off in a groan as I clenched involuntarily around him.
The pleasure spiraled higher, tighter, until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel. Every thrust pushed me closer. Every circle of his fingers wound the tension impossibly tighter. I was dimly aware of sounds escaping my throat—half-words, pleas, his name repeated like a mantra.
"That's it," he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in his tone. "Don't fight it. Let me feel you come apart. I want to know what it feels like when you—"
The orgasm crashed through me before he could finish, stealing my breath, my voice, my ability to do anything but feel. My body clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, pleasure exploding outward from my core in waves so intense they bordered on pain. I heard myself cry out—his name, I think, though I couldn't be sure—and felt him follow me over the edge. He buried himself deep, his whole body going rigid, then shuddering as he came, my name falling from his lips broken and raw.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us trembling, breathing hard, our bodies still joined. Finally, he shifted, carefully pulling out and rolling to the side, pulling me with him so I was tucked against his chest.
His hand traced lazy patterns on my back, fingers running through my hair. I pressed my face against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat, aware of every place our bodies touched. The scent of sex and sweat hung in the air between us, intimate and raw. Above me, his long dark hair splayed across the pillow, and when I looked up, those gold irises set within cobalt were watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"That was—" I started, then stopped, not sure how to put it into words.
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice rough. "It was."
We lay there in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us processing what had just happened. I settled against him, my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. Outside, Fange City hummed with its usual violence and desperation. Inside this room, we were safe.
For now.
Chapter 12
Ahrick
The training pits stank of blood and sweat and desperation.
I stood in the center of the ring, watching three fighters circle me like scavengers around a dying animal. They thought they had a chance. They thought numbers would give them an advantage.
They were wrong.
The first one lunged—a Kerzak with scarred arms and filed teeth. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and used his momentum to slam him face-first into the dirt. The second came at me from behind. I spun, my elbow connecting with his jaw hard enough to crack bone.
