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I’m expecting a fade to black, but I should have known better. This is the famous spire sex scene after all, not the famous spire kiss scene.
Think Bridgerton but hundreds, thousands of feet in the air. Skirts shoved out of the way. Breeches unlaced. Mavryx’s back is aglow with effort, bunching and releasing, and that’s before the camera gives us his gloriously naked ass, demonstrating to the tepid thrusters of this world how it’s done. Every last muscle in his body is taut with effort, his hands gripping the spire over their heads, his wings spread, shoulder muscles carved from stone.
Holy. Shit.
And at the same time…
I hate the camera right now.
Because as much as I love all the tanned, ripped man on-screen, I’m not seeing what I most want to see. I want the camera on Shane’s face. I want to see his eyelids heavy with pleasure, his pupils blown, his lips swollen, mouth open?—
“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry?—”
Mavryx is on-screen and also in my living room, hands up in the universal symbol of I’m not going to hurt you. Not Mavryx. Shane. Shane is in my living room, and it’s like coming down from a thousand feet up. Rushing back into my body from a hundred yards away. It’s like a collision with the Mack Truck of reality.
He takes a step back, looking like he, too, has been hit with a truck. “Ive, I am so sorry— I could hear that you were watching something, and I rang and knocked and texted you, but you didn’t hear it?—”
He’s backing away.
Because I’m sprawled back on the couch, hand tucked between my squeezed-together thighs.
My face flames. I rip my hand away from the soft, hot place between my legs and grab for the remote. But I’m too late.
“Is that…?” Shane has caught sight of the TV. His eyebrows go way up at the sight of himself in his full-on, reverse-side glory.
In an act of absolutely genius tech mastery, I manage to turn off the receiver, TV, and streaming box in rapid succession, and the TV blinks black. For all the good it does me.
He’s staring at me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what?” he asks.
“Don’t lord it over me.”
“Ah,” he says, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s not smirking. There’s no tease in his voice. And his eyes are locked onto my face. My body, which is already hot enough to combust, gets even hotter. He takes a few steps forward and kneels on the floor in front of the couch. “I would never. I mean,” he says, his voice low and rough, “I’ll leave if you want me to leave. But I could also maybe…stay.”
“Why would you do that?” I’m torn between embarrassment and curiosity. Desire. Okay, let’s call it what it is: lust.
He reaches a hand out. Brushes a finger down the seam of my shorts. The shorts are thin, and underneath I’m wearing a pair of equally thin lace panties, so the touch on my swollen, eager body is absolutely electric. My hips lift completely without my permission, seeking more.
“Is that so?” he asks. “You like that? You want me to do it again?”
A very small part of my brain is trying to cling to sanity and…failing.
“Yes” falls from my lips.
He grins, extends his finger, and strokes me again.
My eyes drift closed.
“Like this?” he wants to know, his touch still light. Teasing. Tormenting.
It’s not enough.
I shake my head.
“Harder?” he asks, and now it’s his palm cupping me, rubbing perfect friction over every hungry, needy bit of me, and it’s good, but?—
