Page 59 of Laced in Longing

He surges forward, filling me in one slow, relentless push, and the apartment fills with our identical moans—a shared cry of relief; like something that was always meant to be joined finally clicking into place. He’s buried so deep, pausing when I wince. The burn from his thickness disappears quickly, but he remains still, shaking, his breath ragged against my throat.

“I know,” he chokes. “Oh, I know you now.”

I’m so stretched and full, the seams of my sex splitting in a delicious manner. At the same time, a cord snaps into place under my heart. As if my body recognizes him and is acknowledging this connection. My eyes flood again, and this time I don’t fight it. The tears soak into my hair.

“Why am I crying,” I laugh, the words wet, and he lifts his head, thumb catching the liquid on my temple.

“Because your soul remembers. It is only you recognizing home.”

Home. I cannot think about the meaning of that right now, or I’ll cry for real and never stop.

Finally, he draws back and drives in again, and thinking altogether becomes impossible.

He sets a rhythm that’s deep and unhurried, each thrust deliberate and heavenly. His hands never stop moving—cradling my face, gripping my hip, dragging up to lace his fingers through mine and pin them to the mattress above my head. He murmurs against my skin the whole time, a stream of broken reverence in that gravel-dark voice.

“You feel—there are no words. In any tongue or any world.” His hips snap forward hard, and I cry out. “Mine. Every inch of you. Every breath. Every sound.” His teeth sink into my shoulder, just enough to hurt without breaking skin. “Say it.”

“Yours.” I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything. “Yours, yours—god, don’t stop⁠—”

“Never.” His pace quickens, control fraying at the edges. “I will never stop. Not for eternity.”

The pressure builds again, faster this time, wound tight by his words as much as his body. I meet every thrust, chasing him, my heels digging into the small of his back. The bed frame knocks against the wall—I don’t care. Let the whole building hear. Let the whole city know that someone, finally, wanted me enough to fall apart.

“I’m so close,” I gasp. “Ash, I’m⁠—”

“I have you.” He shifts the angle until his length strokes that sensitive spot, reaching between us to pinch my clit. “Come with me, my flower. Take me with you.”

I shatter. The second orgasm crashes harder than the first, blinding and total, my whole body seizing around him. And he follows me over the edge with a hoarse cry muffled against my throat, his hips stuttering, his hand crushing mine as he empties himself into me with a shudder that racks his entire frame.

For a long moment there’s only our breathing, and the distant murmur of traffic. As my hands grip his shoulders, I tug his full weight onto me, needing it.

He doesn’t pull away. He just holds me, and when I feel wetness against my collarbone that isn’t sweat, I realize the God of Longing is crying too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MAVEN

Iwake to a cacophony of voices filtering through my apartment walls. The echo of conversation pulls me from the depths of sleep, where for once I was not visited by Ash.

Because he’s lying next to you.

My eyelids snap open, fragments of morning light stinging my vision. First the noise registers, then the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist, then the pleasant ache between my thighs.

Memories of last night flood back in a rush of heat. Time spent with Ash. His hands and mouth. I swear he touched me as if I am his most valuable possession.

And I need more of it.

I turn my head slowly, half-expecting to find myself alone—to discover that last night was just another vivid dream my broken mind conjured to cope with loneliness. But he’s here, beside me, his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. Do gods need to sleep? Apparently this one does, or at least pretends to for my benefit.

At rest, he looks almost vulnerable—his usual perfect stillness replaced by something more human and languid. One arm remains possessively wrapped around my middle, his fingers splayed across my ribs. Even in unconsciousness, he fears I might slip away.

I study him in the pale light. Without his long coat, dressed only in the sheet tangled around his hips, his body is a marvel of contradictions—powerful yet elegant, clearly not human but shaped like one. His skin holds a warmth that radiates against mine where we touch, and I shiver from the comfort of it.

Last night was…I don’t have words adequate to describe it. The single best night of my entire life feels like an understatement. I felt truly free. Safe. He worshiped every inch of me just as he promised, with a devotion that made me believe, if only for a few hours, that I might be worthy of such attention.

The voices outside grow louder, pulling me from my reverie. What the hell is going on out there? It’s like a crowd has gathered in the hallway, which makes no sense. My building is mostly occupied by people who avoid interaction as studiously as I do. And seeing as there’s only one other apartment close to me, I doubt they’re throwing a party on the stairs at seven in the morning.

I slide carefully from beneath Ash’s arm, my body protesting with new and interesting twinges. The chilly floor caresses my bare feet, forcing my toes to curl in as I grab the first piece of clothing I find—his shirt, discarded beside the bed. It’s far too large, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh. The fabric feels strange against my skin, neither cotton nor silk but both at the same time?