Page 67 of Burning Her Beautiful
I step closer, removing my coat, boots, and bracers—layers falling between night and skin until we stand in simple linens. She lifts her fingertips, tracing the new brand on my wrist. I mirror the gesture; sparks tingle.
I whisper, “Ready?”
“For the first dawn of every new world,” she answers.
We enter the pavilion. Canvas flutters, muting the surf. She sits on the bed, silk whispering. I kneel, sliding her slippers off and kissing each instep. She exhales a shaky breath. I hook my fingers under the hem, sliding the gown upward over her knees and thighs. She lifts her arms; the fabric slips above her head, leaving her in an ivory chemise translucent in candlelight.
Desire surges, but I temper it with reverence. I discard my own shirt and linen trousers. Candle-glow dances across scars and silver runes. She touches the jagged line near my ribs—a legacy of early campaigns. Her voice turns soft. “Battle hardened you, but love softens the edges.”
“Only for you.” I kiss her palm, then press my mouth to the scar on her shoulder left by an assassin’s bolt. “Pain becomes testament.”
She cups my face, pulling me onto the bed. Cotton sighs under our weight. Our mouths meet—gentle at first, exploring. Her tongue tastes of honey-wine from the feast. I savor, slowing the pace. My hands roam her curves, tracing from waist to the subtle swell of her hip. She arches, fingers threading through my hair.
Night air cools the skin we expose. I slide a chemise strap down her shoulder, kissing a trail along her collarbone and resting over the glyph; it pulses warm. She sighs, eyes half-lidded. “You honor me like a relic.”
“A relic forged from stars.” My voice vibrates against her skin.
I ease fabric over her breasts. Candlelight gilds them in a soft glow. I pause, letting my gaze travel with silent devotion. Her hand guides mine to rest over her heart. The beat quickens beneath my palm. She whispers, “Take, and be taken.”
We move together, the chemise discarded. Her skin glows in candlelight, kissed with the faint sheen of sweat and moon-pulled silk. Iliana presses me onto my back, straddling my waist, her thighs strong and trembling. Hair falls around her face in a dark, glinting curtain—moonlight caught in obsidian waves. She looks like prophecy come to life, a goddess no prayer could deserve, and yet she chooses me.
Her palms explore my chest slowly, reverently. She traces the old battle scars with soft fingertips—down my ribs, acrossmy shoulder, lingering at the rune-silver tattoos etched into my arms. Her touch makes the marks hum, the runes responding to her presence as if they, too, know she is the only one who ever mattered.
She presses her palm to the glyph over my sternum.
A pulse arcs from the contact—blue-white light streaking beneath skin like contained lightning. She gasps, but not in fear. Wonder fills her gaze. Awe. As though even after everything, she still cannot believe I’m hers.
“I feel you everywhere,” she whispers. “Even before you move.”
I cup her hips, holding steady as she shifts forward. Her hand slides down, fingers curling around the base of my cock. My breath shudders out. I’m already hard, already aching for her, but I don’t rush her.
“I want to feel you,” she says, lifting slightly. “I want to take my time learning how your body sings.”
My fingers dig into her thighs as she aligns us. And then—slow, controlled—she lowers herself onto me.
I groan, low and feral. Her pussy takes me inch by inch, tight heat gripping me in a molten hold. She’s soaked, so warm I feel swallowed. Her brows knit as she takes all of me, hips pressing flush to mine, her cunt stretching and fluttering around my cock like a heartbeat. We don’t move. Not yet.
She sits still, her chest rising and falling, our eyes locked. I see everything in hers: the storm she tamed, the chains she broke, the vow she made beside the river, the love she offers now—fierce and unshakable.
I run my hands up her thighs, over her hips, until they cradle her waist. She trembles under my grip, and I feel her clench around me, fluttering.
“Iliana,” I whisper. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
“And you,” she replies, voice thick, “feel like home.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, a soft echo that mimics the rhythm growing between us.
She begins to move—slow and sure, her hips rolling in a deep grind that drags my cock along every swollen, slick inch inside her. Each lift and fall, each swivel of her hips, draws a ragged sound from my throat. My hands guide, but I do not control. She sets the pace, and I follow—helpless, reverent, utterly undone.
Her body undulates above me, breasts bouncing gently with each movement, skin golden in the flickering light. Her pussy grips me with wet heat, fluttering as she rocks back and forth, each slide of my cock deeper, harder. The friction is unbearable and perfect, every stroke searing.
“You’re so deep,” she gasps. “So thick. You fill me like no one ever could.”
I sit up, wrapping an arm around her waist and catching her mouth in a kiss. Tongues tangle. Her moan vibrates against my lips, and I swallow it whole. I can feel the tension building in her—the way her thighs tremble, the way her pussy tightens. My cock throbs inside her.
She breaks the kiss, panting. “Lie back,” she says, voice dark and wanting. “I want to ride you harder.”
I obey, falling back against the mattress. She leans forward, bracing her hands on my chest, and begins to move faster. Her pace turns wild, erratic, sweat slipping between her breasts as she bounces on my cock, gasping. The sound of her pussy slapping against my hips fills the room, wet and rhythmic, each collision sending sparks up my spine.
