Page 32 of Maid For The Dark Elf

The last of my resistance crumbles like ancient parchment. My hands find her waist, pulling her against me as months of carefully maintained distance dissolve in the space of a heartbeat.

"Then stop wondering," I whisper against her lips.

The first brush of her lips against mine feels like breaking the surface after months underwater. I gasp into her mouth, my fingers tangling in her chestnut hair, pulling her closer until there's no space between our bodies. Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, until they knot behind my neck like she's afraid I'll let go.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispers against my mouth between kisses that grow deeper, hungrier. "Not ever."

My control fractures. I guide her backward until the soft grass cushions our descent, my body covering hers, one knee between her thighs. The scent of wildflowers and her skin—lemongrass and summer warmth—makes my head swim. My hands find the hem of her skirts, bunching the fabric in my fists as I push it upward over her hips.

"Tell me you want this." My voice sounds ragged, foreign to my own ears.

She arches her back, pressing her pelvis against my thigh. "You know I do."

The first touch of my fingers against her inner thigh makes her shudder. Heat radiates from her center, dampness soaking through her simple cotton undergarments. I peel them aside, exposing her to the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak canopy.

Her cunt glistens, pink and swollen, waiting.

I trace one finger through her folds, collecting the moisture that beads there. She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips bucking upward. "Caelric..."

"Watch me." I hold her gaze as I lower my head between her legs, then stop myself. No, not yet. First I want her begging. My thumb finds her clit, that tight little bud already hard with arousal. I circle it slowly, deliberately, applying just enough pressure to make her whimper.

"Please," she breathes, hands fisting in my hair. "Don't tease me."

"It's not teasing." I press my thumb down harder, watching her mouth fall open. "It's worship."

Spread wide over her mound, my other hand slides lower until two fingers slip inside her. She's tight, so fucking tight, and wetness coats my skin as I push deeper. Her inner muscles clench around my fingers like she's trying to keep them there forever.

"Yes," she hisses, rocking her hips to meet each thrust. "Right there—don't stop⁠—"

I add a third finger, stretching her open as my thumb continues working her clit in slow, relentless circles. Her moans grow louder, less controlled, each gasp punctuated by my name. Sweat beads on her forehead, her chestnut hair spreading across the grass like spilled wine.

"You're so beautiful like this," I murmur, watching her come apart beneath my touch. "All my disciplined thoughts vanish when I see you spread open for me."

Her release builds like a storm gathering on the horizon. I can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the ragged pitch of her breathing, in the desperate grip of her hand on my wrist. I lean down, capturing her mouth in another fierce kiss to swallow her cries as my fingers drive her over the edge.

Her body trembles beneath mine as the aftershocks fade, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. When our eyes meet, her pupils are blown wide with desire, hazel irises reduced to thin rings around pools of black. My own breathing sounds harsh in the afternoon stillness.

"What have we done?" she whispers, though her fingers still grip my shoulders like she's afraid I'll disappear.

I lean down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tastes of desperation and promises I'm not certain I can keep. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding, and I pour everything I cannot say aloud into the connection between us.

"Something far more dangerous than either of us intended," I murmur against her mouth when we finally break apart.

She traces the line of my jaw with trembling fingers. "We should walk away. Before this becomes impossible to untangle from the investigation."

"Should we?" I pull her against my chest, my arms encircling her as though I can shield her from the political realities that wait beyond this clearing. "Because I find myself unwilling to consider that option."

Her chestnut hair spills across my forearm like silk, and I cannot resist running my fingers through the strands. Everything about her draws me deeper—the way she tilts her head when considering a problem, the quiet strength that has carried her through years of servitude, the fierce intelligence that cuts through noble pretenses like a blade.

"Neither am I," she admits, her voice muffled against my chest. "Which terrifies me more than any conspiracy we might uncover."

I press my lips to the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of lemongrass and wildflowers that has become synonymous with these stolen moments. "Then we face the terror together."

She pulls back to meet my gaze, and I see my own conflict reflected in her expression—the knowledge that we've crossed a line from which there is no retreat, coupled with the certainty that retreat was never truly possible.

"The investigation⁠—"

"Will continue," I finish. "But it's no longer separate from this, is it? From us."