He carried me to the bed.
He laid me out on the blanket, and he lay down beside me, the length of his body against the length of mine, his arm around my shoulder, my head on his chest. The fire was low, but the heat of him was enough. The cracks glowed. The bond at my wrist glowed in answer.
We stayed like that for a long time.
I listened to his heart. It was measured, steady, heavy, a pulse that belonged to no other being in this or any realm. His hands never stopped moving: one in my hair, combing it down, letting it fan across his chest; one at my hip, stroking the curve of me, drawing circles over the softest part of my skin.
We did not talk about the city. Or the brothers. Or the king.
We did not talk about the pillar, or the cracks, or the gold running riot through the whole of the domain. There was nothing in the world but the two of us, and the hush, and the warmth of being wanted, precisely and completely, by the man whose true name only I had ever known.
He shifted, after a while.
He pulled me up, so that I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs. His hands found my waist.
He said, “You are the most precious thing in all of my city.”
I said, “I believe you.”
I reached between us, and I stroked him, once, and a growl came from him—low, primal, not for anyone else’s ears. I felt heat flood me and my pussy, bathed in gold and marble, flooded with desire.
I said, “There is something I want.”
He nodded. “Anything.”
“I want something new.”
“New?” He raised an eyebrow. Through the bond, her already knew.
“Yes, Daddy.”
I languidly stroked the length of his cock. “I want this to go somewhere new. To feel the fullness of you in a new way.”
“You want—”
“I want you to fuck me in the ass, Daddy.”
The bond at my wrist went white-hot. The crack at his jaw widened, just a hair.
He bared his teeth, the almost-smile that had undone me in the gallery, in the study, everywhere.
He said, “You will have it. You will have everything.”
He rolled me onto my back.
He knelt above me, and he kissed my mouth, my throat, the old seam at my eyebrow, then down to my breasts, my stomach, the inside of my thighs. The heat of his body, the fire, the wine-red blanket, the air itself—it was all the same, all one heat, one color, one story.
He brought his mouth between my legs and worshipped me, again, until I was shaking, until I was slick and wild and clutching at his hair with both hands. He sucked at my clit, and the bond at my wrist sizzled, and when I begged, he laughed, and he kept going until the orgasm rolled out of me like a wave.
He licked his fingers, then worked them in me—first one, then another, slicking the entrance with his tongue, the tip of his finger, with measured care.
“Are you ready?” he said, voice rough with wanting.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
He kissed my mouth, and I tasted myself, and I kissed him back, and I wanted him, all of him, more than I had ever wanted anything.
He kissed down my body.
