Page 29 of Burning Her Beautiful
Her rhythm falters as her orgasm builds again. I hold her tighter, fuck upward into her as she rides me, her body bowing, trembling. I suck hard on her nipple, slip a finger between us again and stroke her clit just right—and she unravels.
She screams.
Her pussy clenches around me in a violent spasm, milking my cock as she comes with an earthquake of sound, the chaise creaking beneath us. Her nails rip down my back, and the pain is pleasure, is grounding, is mine.
And I lose it.
I thrust into her once—twice—and then I come, roaring her name, cock pulsing deep inside her as I spill, wave after wave, until it feels like my soul empties into her. My arms cage her to my chest as I shudder, still seated inside her, her body wrapped around mine like a vow.
For a long moment, we’re nothing but breath and heartbeat. Her forehead rests against mine. My arms shake from the aftermath.
Then she moves.
Slowly, gently, she shifts off me, still trembling, and sinks back against the chaise, legs parted, skin slick and flushed, marked with my hands and my mouth.
She looks wrecked.
Beautiful.
Mine.
I close my eyes, letting each slow heartbeat remind me she is real, alive, and here by choice. The realization frightens me more than any battlefield—it promises a pain sharper than blades if she is lost. I tighten my arms.
After minutes she speaks, voice hazy. “That brand of yours feels cooler now.”
I glance down at the spiral. Indeed, its glow has dimmed, as if sated. “Perhaps it wanted to remember joy,” I murmur.
Her laughter is sleepy, tender. “Joy and thunder.” She brushes the scar again. “I liked meeting all of you tonight—the commander and the man underneath.”
I swallow, an unexpected prick of emotion lodging in my throat. “I am still learning who the man underneath even is.”
“Then we learn together.” She yawns, snuggling closer.
I press a kiss to her damp hair. In the deep hush after the storm, responsibilities crowd the edges of thought—Sarivya’s decree, Yalira’s vote, Asmodeus’s threats—but they wait outside the circle of her warmth. For this whisper of night, I rest in borrowed grace.
As her breathing slows, I vow under my breath: no collar, no law, no king will strip this from us. If I must carve new constellations across the sky to keep her safe, I will draw them with blood and lightning.
Outside, thunder rumbles a distant approval. Inside, her heartbeat guides mine toward a dawn neither of us has dared to imagine—yet one I will bend the world to see.
10
ILIANA
The first edge of dawn seeps across the carved cornice above Varok’s bed, turning onyx inlays to veins of rose-gold. I wake before the sun claws fully over the horizon, my head tucked beneath his chin, my body cradled within a fortress of rune-marked arms. His breathing unfolds in slow, measured waves, and with each exhale the glowing lines beneath his skin dim and then brighten again, a lullaby of living embers.
For one impossibly fragile moment I let myself exist inside that peace. No council edicts lurk beyond the door, and no collars glint on frightened throats. Bloodshed and politics obey an invisible tether outside this chamber. Only the scent of cedar and of lingering heat wraps around me—his scent—and the echo of last night steals another shiver through my limbs.
Then reality intrudes. I feel my hair plastered to my neck, the tenderness where his grip branded my hips, the pulse beating far too fast beneath my ribs. Delight wars with dread. A rebel cannot afford to drown in silk sheets or crimson skin. I turn my head, studying the peaceful planes of his face. Half-lidded silver eyes track dreams I cannot enter, eyelashes dark against copper skin. Horns arch back like polished obsidian—sinister to most eyes,yet softened by the faintest curl at the tips. He looks younger in sleep, the ruthless commander stripped away, leaving only the man who whispered my name as if it might save him.
Perhaps it will save both of us—or destroy everything we have built.
I slide carefully from the cocoon of his arms, easing free without waking him. The chill leaches warmth from my bare skin, but I welcome its sharp clarity. I scoop his silk robe from the floor and shrug it over my shoulders. The fabric pools at my ankles; heat from his body still clings to the weave. I tie the sash twice, then pad across the room toward the tall windows that overlook the western cloud sea.
The floating continent hangs silent this early, as though the whole expanse holds its breath. Jagged pylons of basalt thrust through cotton valleys of mist, their tips catching the rising sun. On the horizon a column of storm clouds glimmers with distant lightning, yet there is no thunder here—only a hush pierced by the windbeats of night-riders returning to roost. I press my palm to the glass. The cool pane steadiesmythoughts, whirling faster than those storm bands.
I want to laugh at my reflection—hair tangled, lips still swollen, pulse flicking at my throat—yet guilt bites instead. Every kiss, every gasping surrender felt true, but I walked willingly into the arms of our oppressor, a demon lord whose blade hovered above my chest days ago. I betrayed no plan, revealed no secrets, but I gave him something perhaps more dangerous: my trust.
A ghost of last night’s voice echoes—his promise to bend constellations with blood and lightning for me. Part of me thrills; another recoils. Heroes forged from obsession may topple thrones, yet they can crush the very people they swear to save. I rub the blossom tucked behind my ear. Its petals havewilted under the press of pillows, yet a faint fragrance lingers—memory and warning both.
