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As he took me in with an intensity I’d never experienced, my pussy clenched around nothing, and I whimpered again. The golden irises of his eyes swam like molten ore, so fast they were hypnotic. His cheekbones sharpened and his scent pulsed from him in waves that matched the fluttering of his pulse in his through as he took in my half-dressed state. I eased my arms out the dress as I tried to catch my breath.

His lips were on mine again, his hands palming my waist and lifting me onto the table, moving the books and other items out of the way with little more than a casual swipe of his arm. I reached for his tunic, grabbing it too tightly, trying to expose his skin, too. He slowed the kiss and then pulled away, his eyes on mine as he pulled the laces and then slipped the tunic off with a single hand. I couldn’t help but trace the vine and scrollwork tattoo that covered his sternum, mesmerized by the dark blue of the ink and the precision of the lines. Fine line tattoos just didn’t age this well. Not without magic, at least.

He pressed his lips to the sensitive spot behind my ear, tracing some of the translation spell’s tattoo with his tongue. I twisted a hand back into his hair even as I traced some of the thin scars that littered his back. His hands were featherlight as they skimmed down my thighs and then hot brands as he pushed the skirt past my hips, baring me completely.

“This is okay?” The words were gravel.

I nodded, but he only tightened his hold on the fabric of my skirt.

“You’re not wearing⁠—”

I shook my head.

“Holy Yasmin,” he muttered.

The Goddess of Pleasure.

“Touch me,” I whispered. “Please.”

He let his lips drop to my shoulder and then my sternum. I gasped as he pulled one nipple into his mouth, arching against him again. My scent doubled again, and I wanted to cry from how much I needed him. I’d never felt this level of need, this amount of unadulterated desire for another person—even more than my own pleasure, I needed him to be the one that gave it. He let my nipple pop free, the bud tightening in the sudden cool air, and then turned to give the same attention to the other one. I couldn’t help but whimper even as I tightened my hold in his hair, my nails digging into his skin hard enough I might very well break skin. Arousal was an electric current in my veins, racing down my spine with every brush of his lips and hands against my skin. I was going to break before he ever even touched my clit, I was nearly positive. He was going to give me a fucking nipple orgasm like those actually happened in real life. His teeth scraped my nipple as he let it fall from his mouth, and my pussy clenched again. I was so close to the edge, I’d be embarrassed about it later.

Instead of continuing lower, he went back to the first nipple, letting his thumb scrape over the other one, massaging both with thumb and tongue and palm until I was gasping and writhing. When his teeth scraped again, I shattered. I shook in his hold, and my scent whipped out from me, the vanilla impossibly strong. He grunted against my skin, then wrapped an arm around my waist, supporting me as I came down from the climax and wanted to fall to the table in a puddle of sated desire.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “That didn’t just happen. That… Those… Nipple orgasms don’t actually happen in real life.”

Our scents were a blended mess, pine and vanilla and wisteria and oranges. The result was so intoxicating, I wanted to bottle it up so I could have it whenever I wanted.

“You’re exquisite,” Callum breathed. “Holy Yasmin, I could live on those breathy sounds alone.”

My cheeks flushed even as another of those sounds fell from my lips, wrung from me by a featherlight touch along one hipbone. Without thinking, I spread my legs wider. Impossibly, I still ached for him, still have desire singing in my veins. He dropped to his knees and pulled me closer to the edge of the table, his nose following the path his fingers had just taken across my hip. I gasped, and he paused.

His gaze burned as he looked up. “This okay?”

Gods, he was so close. I tilted my hips in answer and invitation. His palm run up the inside of my thigh, and I let my eyes drift shut. Except he didn’t run his lips or tongue anywhere on my skin, and his hand slowed as he neared where I ached. He pulled away, and I almost whimpered.

“Who?” Now his voice was a low rumble, a warning shot.

“Wh-what?” I dropped my chin and opened my eyes.

Callum kneeled between my spread thighs, my knees bracketing his shoulders, and the sight was enough to have me clenching again, wetness coating my thighs. His nostrils flared. He carefully traced one of the hundreds of thin white scars that tracked up my inner thighs, and understanding washed through me.

“Who did this to you?” The promise of violence laced the words, weaving between the anger and disbelief and maybe even sorrow. “Who took a knife to you so many times?”

The desire banked. I swallowed heavily and crossed my arms, pulling the dress up to cover more of my torso.

“Was it that scum of a man? Was this part of—” The question cut off with a deep growl that had a shiver of true fear racing down my spine and spreading goosebumps along my skin.

“No, no, it’s not something he did.”

“Someone else hurt you?” He traced another one and then another, never inching closer to my center. “I wish I could do the same to them, that they would understand the cruelty.”

I swallowed. “Callum.”

His name was a whisper. His gaze flashed up to me. His irises had stopped swirling, now a solid gold that still pierced me and made it difficult to breathe.

“I made those cuts.”

Shock dropped his shoulders and widened his eyes.