Page 58 of Lux

He spent so long in that mental prison, doling out pleasure as a punishment to his master. He doesn’t even remember what it is he wants, or enjoys, or likes.

“I will make you enjoy,” I say. A fair enough trade. His gift of flight for my touch.

We tangle into one another, a mass of limbs and prodding mouths. Our kisses are open and tentative, placed against patches of skin. I kiss him along his collar bone. Then peel the material of his shirt aside to see what lies beneath.

He kisses me along my throat, then lower, nosing aside the red material of my circus costume. He never took it off. Didn’twant to disturb me. It’s why he piled me high beneath so many blankets, to shield me from the imagined cold.

Those blankets shroud us both now and become our own kingdom. A private realm. One in which we rule supreme with no other lords to bow to.

Bathed in the darkness here, Caspian bows to me. His kisses become more urgent. Frantic. A lapping tongue and raking teeth that pull at pieces of me as if he aims to swallow them whole. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t so much as bite. Just licks and tastes and beats my body into submission with his hunger and lust.

My heart pounds. My breaths grow heavy and slowed. I can’t describe how he feels. The weight of him pins me down. I am stripped bare by his groping fingers and laid before him like a banquet table.

If he took me like this, I wouldn't know any better. I wouldn’t want anything more.

But he doesn’t.

He pulls back, flips me over, and makes me mount him. Our pelvises collide with a collective groan. My hands brace against his bare chest for leverage. Those red eyes glare up at me, daring me to take the gift he’s offered.

Power over him, body, mind, and soul.

It is a gift more precious than that of flight.

I can touch him unrestrained and trail my fingers across that chest, rippling with muscle as hard as marble. He is perfection in every sense of the word. Nothing—no manmade piece of art—compares to him. Not now. Not ever.

I lean forward and press my lips to the base of his throat. A low grumble resonates there in response. He isn’t used to being touched. Worshiped. The terms are alien to him. Savoring contact is unfamiliar to him. He bucks with every inch I explore.

One of his thoughts slips into my mind, unbidden:can’t remember.What he looks like, before his current form. What the mortal who once wore this very flesh felt like. Tasted like with warmth and sun on his skin. It haunts him, deep down in the fragmented chaos of his mind, where he doesn’t let himself dwell.

It terrifies him to question what sort of person he was like. What drew Cassius to him and vice versa. That is the truth about becoming a vamryre. One they don’t like to let slip out: it is a willing gift that can only be bestowed upon those who ask.

Once, the human mortal he used to be went to Cassius and asked to be turned. He asked that bastard to consume him, body, and mind. He hates himself for that.

But I could never hate him.

“You are beautiful to me,” I murmur against his skin. My lips trace a path down his breastbone and hover over where his heart should be. Where it is still. I see it there, a fragile, neglected thing, yet there nevertheless. “You are art to me,” I tell him, kissing him there. Once. Twice. “When I am with you…” My fingers shake as I spread them out, tracing him, memorizing every bit of bone, muscle, and flesh. “I forget that I cannot fly.”

Whenever I am around him, the ache in my soul goes away for a moment. Not because of his gift for persuasion. It is in moments like this, when he takes one of my hands gently in his own and watches the slim fingers hover, bathed in shadow.

“You are artwork to me,” he echoes, his voice deep and rasping, eyes blazing. “In this body, I remember what I am. I think. What I was.” He frowns and trails off, then he copies me, contouring himself to press his lips to my forehead.

That kiss is the most intimate of any we have shared before. It is strange for him. To react on a desire merely for his own benefit. Not because Cassius was in his head urging him to. Not because Cassius commanded himnotto.

He wants to kiss me on the forehead like this. On the lips. Against my throat. Lower still. After that, he stops and listens to the cadence of my breathing. In and out. It is magical to him.

Thisis magical to him. Silence and nearness and grasping hands that hold each other tightly. There is no need for any more. He could listen to my heartbeat for an eternity.

And I could endure his listening for an eternity more.

“Sex was a chore I undertook for him,” he admits, his voice low. I hold myself still, giving him the space to mull over the words before he speaks them. “A duty. I never enjoyed it. Never wanted the bodies I claimed for him.Hewanted them, not me. But with you…” He looks up, gazing at me through wayward strands of white hair. I’m captivated. Riveted. Heartbroken. “I saw you, and I wanted you. For myself. Me alone. I ached to be inside of you. Does that scare you, little fae?”

It should. I feel my cheeks flame and my heart race--telltale signs of fear. Or something else. A dangerous, primal emotion I’ve only ever felt with him. With his hands on my body and inside of it. In the most intimate way possible, we embraced each other with our bodies.

I feel my throat dampen and my tongue thicken at the thought of him. Maybe…

“From the moment I first saw you,” I say, fumbling over the words, “I wanted you too.”

Although I am sure he has heard those words before from far more impressive people than myself, he doesn't laugh. Over the years, he has held bodies much more ample and appealing than the thin hips he currently cradles.

---