Page 44 of Burning Her Beautiful
I close my eyes, guilt flaring. “I woke you. Forgive me.”
She opens the door fully. Sleep braids her hair in soft tangles, and a midnight-blue robe clings to her frame. “Come in,” she urges—gentle yet firm. “Tell me what gnaws at you.”
Inside, the room smells of lavender and parchment, calm compared with my chamber of battle maps. A single candle burns beside the bed, painting her cheekbones in honeyed light. She guides me to a cushioned bench. I sit, unbuckling the heavy coat while she pours water into two clay cups. My hands shake as I set the gauntlets aside; she notices. Of course she does.
“I thought you found peace after we spoke,” she says, passing me the cup.
“So did I,” I answer, taking a sip. The cool liquid anchors me, yet the quake remains. “The closer we tread to the eclipse, the more I feel fault lines under my feet.”
She kneels before me, hands resting on my thighs. “Tell me which fault scares you most.”
“Failure.” My voice cracks. “If the nets misfire tomorrow and lightning rips through the crowd.” I swallow hard. “If Asmodeus orders your death to punish me.”
Her fingers slide up, clasping mine. “We prepared. We trust our allies.”
“I trust you,” I whisper. “I do not trust myself. Every decision I make seems laced with desperation now.”
She rises onto the bench, sitting beside me yet angled so our knees touch. “Desperation rooted in love can still grow brave choices.”
Love. The word lands like thunder without a storm. I hear it from her lips and remember my own admission to the king. I turn to face her fully.
“My need for you terrifies me. It eclipses sense.” I breathe in her scent. “I came here not for seduction, but because emptiness clawed at me.”
She slides her palm along my jaw. “Then let me fill that emptiness.”
Her words unravel restraint. I draw her onto my lap, gentleness guiding every motion. She straddles me, robe parting to reveal a night-shift of thin linen. Moonlight from the window spills across her throat. I press my lips to that pulse point—slow, reverent. She sighs, fingers threading into my hair, nails scratching lightly at my scalp. The touch loosens knotted tension inside me, strand by strand.
I nudge the robe from her shoulders, trailing soft kisses there. She shivers, but not from cold. “Are you sure?” I ask against her skin.
“I am.” She cups my face, eyes clear. “Tonight we share breath. Tomorrow we share sky. Both only matter if hearts stay open.”
Open. The word feels frightening after years of armor. I unlace the front of her shift, each tie undone with care. The linen falls away, baring curves warmed by candle glow. My breath hitches, yet the hunger that rises is tempered by awe.
I lean back so she can see me, shrugging off coat and undershirt. Chain scars mar my chest in pale arcs, yet her gaze holds no pity—only tenderness. She traces one scar with a fingertip, following its bend until she reaches the glowing brandabove my heart. She presses her palm over it; the brand flares—not in pain, but in the heat of answer.
Gathering courage, I speak the thought. “When you touch me there, I feel more alive than any victory ever granted.”
She smiles softly, eyes glimmering. “Then we honor that life.”
She kisses me—open warmth rather than bruising force. Our tongues meet in slow tasting. My hands find her waist, thumbs stroking hipbones, but I do not grip tight. I hold her as though she might vanish if squeezed. She pushes the linen from her arms, letting it flutter to the floor. Her nakedness is no battlefield spoil; it is sunrise after endless night.
She reaches for my trousers, unlacing them with deft hands. My cock rises, thick and eager, but a tremor of uncertainty crosses her face—this vulnerability is new for both of us. I cover her hands with mine, guiding.
“No rush,” I murmur. “I want every breath.”
She nods, then slides from my lap, stands, and pulls me to my feet. Her robe puddles around her ankles. She backs toward the bed, taking my hand. I follow, heart pounding in a less familiar rhythm—anticipation laced with fragile wonder.
At the mattress edge she stops, palms on my chest. She kisses each chain scar, descending slowly. When her lips meet the brand again, I gasp, light bursting behind my eyelids. She sinks to her knees, nuzzling the line of hair below my navel, then wraps slender fingers around my length, stroking with a feather brush that sends fire along my spine. I groan, muscles trembling, but place my hand on her shoulder.
“I need to be inside you,” I rasp. “Not to claim, but to feel—” Words fail; emotion crowds my throat.
She rises, eyes dark with matching need. She climbs onto the bed, lying back amid sheets. I slip my trousers down, kick them aside, and kneel between her thighs. I guide them apart,marveling at slick heat glistening. I lower to taste her, but she catches my chin.
“Later,” she whispers, voice ragged. “Tonight I want you close. No distance.”
I crawl up, bracing on my forearms so my weight does not crush her. Our noses brush. I align our hips, sliding the head of my cock along her folds. She arches, breath catching. I push in slowly, inch by inch, eyes locked on hers. When fully sheathed I still—overwhelmed by tight warmth surrounding me, the throb of her heartbeat echoing mine.
A tear escapes her eye—not of pain, but of intensity. I kiss it away. My hips move in a shallow glide, pressure building gradually. She meets each stroke, heels pressing into my lower back. We find an unhurried rhythm—gentle waves rather than crashing surf. Sweat beads on my temples. She cups my face, her words a hush.
