Page 68 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Fuck—Iliana—” I can barely breathe. “You’re going to make me come.”
Her eyes gleam. “Not yet.”
She slows, then rotates her hips in a deep, swirling grind that has both of us groaning. Her clit drags against the base of my cock with every shift, and I know she’s close too.
I sit up again, wrapping her in my arms, and roll us. She lands beneath me with a breathless laugh that’s quickly swallowed when I thrust back inside her, hard and deep.
She cries out, legs wrapping around my waist.
“More,” she begs. “Give me all of it.”
I do. I fuck her in deep, steady strokes, each one slamming into the tight clench of her cunt, her body rising to meet mine.
Our rhythm is thunder.
I brace one hand beside her head, the other slipping beneath her thigh to press her knee higher. The new angle lets me drive deeper, cock slamming against her g-spot with brutal precision. She writhes beneath me, gasping, cursing, chanting my name.
“Varok—Varok, gods—I’m going to?—”
I shift again, thrusting harder now, hand slipping between us to rub her clit in tight, relentless circles.
“Come for me,” I growl. “Let me feel you break around my cock.”
She shatters.
Her back arches, pussy clamping down on me like a vice. Her scream echoes through the cavern, her entire body convulsing. She milks me with every spasm, and I can’t hold back.
With a roar, I thrust once more and come inside her—deep and hot—my cock pulsing with wave after wave of release. My vision blanks out, stars behind my eyes. Every drop of control unspools into her.
We stay fused, breathing in tandem, slick with sweat, limbs trembling. Her nails trail along my spine, and I feel her smile against my neck.
“I never imagined…” she whispers. “That being claimed could feel like liberation.”
I ease to the side, bringing her with me, tangled in the sheets. She nestles her head under my chin, fingertips tracing the lineof my jaw. My heart still thumps erratically. She whispers, “I am whole.”
“As am I,” I reply, my voice hoarse.
Silence thickens, yet it feels comfortable. Rain taps the canvas roof in a rhythmic lullaby. I stroke her hair until her breathing evens. She drowses, yet manages to speak, “Tomorrow yields trials new.” A yawn halves the sentence.
“We meet them with joined thunder.” I kiss her brow. She drifts into sleep.
I stare at the canvas ceiling glowing amber from the dying candles. Memories scroll—years of violence, ambition, and empty nights. All culminate here—not an end but a genesis. Possessive fire once ruled my regard; now devotion, shaped by parity, steadies the flame.
Outside, the storm withdraws fully, revealing a field of stars. A breeze carries petrichor. I slip from the bed, wrap a light robe around myself, and step onto the shore. The sand is cool under my feet, the surf luminous. I kneel, scoop water, and let rivulets run through my fingers. The sky-silk cloak lies near the arch where she dropped it; I gather it reverently.
Returning, I pause at the pavilion entrance, watching her sleep. Moonlight paints her back, muscles relaxed, hair fanned across the pillow. She is no captive, no mere consort—she is my partner, the equal architect of dawn. Pride swells fierce, yet softer than prior arrogance—pride in her, in us.
I douse every candle save a single one. Sliding beside her, I feel her instinctively curl into my warmth. I tuck the cloak over us, the silk whispering promises of the skies we now share. The hush of the tide rocks my senses while sleep creeps in, my last thought echoing the vow spoken earlier:
May every thunderclap bear witness to the harmony we forged, and may each sunrise find our hearts still bound by song.
I close my eyes, listening to the rhythm of her breaths, of my own, and of the sea—three notes entwined, an overture to a lifetime yet composed.
ILIANA
Morning breaks in slow golden bands across Galmoleth, painting every tower and parapet in a soft blush. I stand barefoot on the highest veranda of the river-side palace, my toes warmed by sun-soaked marble and my palms cupped around a pewter mug that steams with spiced bergamot. Below me the waterfall thunders, carrying dawn’s light into a rainbow arc before plunging into mist. The city hums to life beneath that spectrum: street vendors raise striped awnings, bell forges coax low notes from newly tuned iron, and ferry pilots shout playful boasts as they race the currents. When I breathe in, I taste bread yeast, cedar smoke, and something sweet that reminds me of the modest courtyard bakery I once scrubbed for scraps. The memory no longer burns; instead, it glows, forging a link between the girl I was and the woman I have become.
A small flutter beneath my navel answers the sunlight. It is not a kick—far too early—yet it is a hush of awareness, as though the child already stretches tiny limbs inside me, testing the limits of safety. I smooth my hand across the curve that is not visible yet but pulses with its own promise. The knowledge arrived two cycles ago, confirmed first by Yalira’s quiet magicand then by Lys’s jubilant tears. We have shared it with no one else, holding the secret like a spark in cupped hands until the time ripens. Today, after the council’s first session under the new charter, I will tell Varok. Even now his presence drifts through the bond-marks shimmering faint silver at my wrist, an ever-present tide that steadies me.
