Page 40 of Siren Problems
I fuck her slow, deep. Letting it burn andbuild.
Her hands claw at my back. My name tumbles from her lips like a prayer, a curse, a confession.
And it’s not just sex; it’scenturiesof longing cracking open.
It’s me—Calder Thorne, prince of silence, cursed and lost—lovingsomeone in the only language I have left.
Her legs pull me closer, tighter. I feel myself unraveling.
The curse pulses, hungry, old magic rising in my throat, tingling beneath my tongue.
“Luna—” I choke. “I—I'm going to?—”
She cups my face, breath ragged. “Let it go.”
I shudder, every thrust now edged with something deeper. I grab her face andlet go.
I feel her pussy clench hard as I spill inside her, her face twisted in pleasure.
"Calder!" she cries, holding on tight. I coach her through it, feeling my own muscles relax as the shocks of orgasm fade.
Her breath is still unsteady when I pull the blanket over us. The fabric clings to our skin, damp with sweat and storm air, but she doesn’t move away.
She stays curled against me like we belong here. Like we didn’t just break a centuries-old curse boundary with our bodies. Like this isn’t a bad idea riding a lightning bolt toward a disaster Ishouldhave stopped.
But gods, it felt good.
No—right.
I can still feel her pulse against my ribs, the soft sound of her breathing syncing with mine. Her hand rests against my chest, fingers splayed like she’s trying to map out a new country. A place she doesn’t know yet, but wants to.
“Are you okay?” she asks again, quieter this time.
I nod before I think. The lie’s automatic.
But something in the way she shifts—pressing closer, not letting go—tells me she doesn’t believe it. Not completely.
Her fingers stroke down the curve of my shoulder, then lower, thumb brushing the faintest mark where my skin shifted during the heat of it. My body always wants to change in moments like that—reveal the monster under the man. But this time, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t freeze.
Shetouched it.
And kissed me harder.
I don’t know what to do with that.
She exhales slowly, her breath feathering against my collarbone. “You’re thinking a lot.”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
She doesn’t push. Doesn’t tease.
Just lets the quiet stretch between us like something safe.
I stare at the ceiling, watching storm light dance through the cracks in the shack’s roof. The rain’s softened now—gentle, almost forgiving.
But inside me, a storm is still building.
Because what we just did wasn’t just sext or magic.
