A soft kiss, after all that power, all that hunger. It broke something tender and aching open inside her. She grabbed his face, pulled him down, desperate for his mouth.
He met her instantly.
Their lips collided, hungry, fiery, consuming. His essence rolled over her in a molten wave—heat, venom, power—but it didn’t unmake her anymore. Her body accepted it. Drew it in. Matched it.
She moaned against his lips.
This being—this breathtaking, dangerous creature—was hers.
And she knew, down to the marrow of her transformed bones, that he would never let harm touch her again.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, red irises glowing like embers, framed by pale lashes that softened the brutal beauty of his face. His long, white hair floated in the water like drifting threads of frost.
She expected him to look monstrous.
He didn’t.
To her, he was ruin and salvation woven into one breathtaking shape.
She tugged him closer. He came willingly, a low growl vibrating from deep in his chest. The sound went straight between her legs.
Her fingers slid to his armor. She wanted skin. Wanted him.
The suit responded immediately—plates releasing, drifting away into the water like dark petals until he stood naked before her.
He was magnificent.
The hard planes of his chest gleamed under the teal light, muscles coiled in elegant, lethal strength. She trailed her hands over him—his ribs, his abdomen, the firm lines of his hips—feeling him shudder under her touch.
Then she felt him against her thigh.
Long. Thick. Heavy. With those subtle but devastating protrusions. Barely contained need.
Her breath broke into a gasp.
He growled softly and cupped her hips, pulling her flush against him. She felt every inch of him, hot and eager, sliding against her through the thin emerald silk. The gown floated around them in rippling green waves, useless, insubstantial.
He lifted the hem with one hand. The other slipped beneath, tearing away what little fabric remained between them. She arched into his touch, thighs parting instinctively.
“Morgan…” he breathed, voice ragged, reverent, hungry all at once. “You feel… perfect.”
He pushed into her in one long, slow stroke.
She cried out as her body stretched around him, took him, welcomed him. He filled her completely, deeper than should have been possible, and pleasure streaked through her, hot and dizzying.
She clung to him, nails pressing into his back, hair floating around them like dark riverweed.
He thrust again—slow and deep, deliberate, savoring her—and she broke against him, hips rising, breath shaking. The water around them, thick and warm, cradled every movement, amplifying sensation.
He kissed her—her mouth, her jaw, the curve of her throat—almost desperately, almost worshipfully.
“Mine,” he rasped, breath hot against her skin.
“And I…” she gasped, voice catching as he drove into her again, “I’m yours.”
The bond tightened, pulsed, flared, heat and sensation flooding back and forth between them, magnifying every thrust, every moan, every shudder.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper. He groaned, the sound raw and edged with hunger, and obeyed, driving into her with a rhythm that stole thought and replaced it with pure, consuming pleasure.
