Page 39 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
It had made everything… more. The way his mouth moved against mine. The roughness of his palms as they slid along my hips. The low growl that rumbled from his throat when I ground my core against him.
My senses were drenched in him—his scent, the heat of his skin, the quiet restraint behind his kiss that was quickly unraveling.
“Fintan,” I whispered against his lips, my voice sultry and breathless, each syllable laced with the ache pulsing through my body. “Please… I need you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his whisky-colored eyes dark and wild. “Elara…”
I didn’t give him time to doubt. My fingers curled into his hair, my hips rolling against his, and I whispered it again—more desperate this time.
“Take me. I want you.”
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth crushed mine, a fierce, consuming kiss that sent sparks down my spine. Whatever control he’d been clinging to broke in that moment, and he gave in—completely, entirely—like a man who’d been waiting too long to touch something forbidden.
And gods help me, I wanted nothing more than to be devoured.
His lips found the hollow of my throat, and I gasped, arching into him as heat coiled low in my belly. Each kiss was a promise of what was coming, slow and deliberate, until I could barely breathe beneath the weight of need.
He pressed me harder against the wall, his hips pushing into mine, sending sparks shooting up to the ache between my legs. I tugged at his tunic, desperate for the feel of his skin. He helped me, tearing it off over his head in one swift motion before reclaiming my mouth in another searing kiss.
Gods, he felt like fire. Warm, strong, alive beneath my fingertips.
His hands were everywhere—tugging at the fabric of my dress, dragging it down inch by agonizing inch. I shivered as cool air kissed my bare skin, only to be replaced by the heat of his touch, his palms reverent and hungry all at once.
He broke the kiss for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting naked like we’d run miles. His breath was shaky, his voice low and rough.
“Are you sure?”
The question lingered in the air like a tether, like a chance to pull back.
I didn’t need to think.
“Yes,” I breathed, eyes locked on his. “I’ve never been more sure.”
That was all he needed.
His mouth was on me again, trailing fire down my neck, across my collarbone, lower—his hands dragging over every curve as if memorizing me by touch alone. I clung to him, moaning softly as he kissed the swell of my chest, the tension between us building with every passing second.
He entered me slowly, the head of his cock pushed through my tightness.
“Ahh,” I whimpered.
“Are you alright?” He asked, pausing his movements.
I pulled him tighter against me and ground my hips, taking him further inside.
“Fuck, Elara,” he said against my lips as he pushed into me more, letting me adjust to his length.
When he finally entered me, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was deep and deliberate, as though he needed to feel every part of me, and make sure I felt him just as much.
Fintan let out a tortured moan.
I cried out, my head thrown back as pleasure bloomed through me like wildfire. He groaned against my skin, holding me tightly as we moved together in a rhythm older than any spell, any vow, any throne.
Slowly, he pulled out of me.
Then he pushed back in.
