This kiss is different from the one in the alcove. That one had been desperate, a man confirming I was real. This one is hungry. This one happens behind a closed door with no audience and nowhere else to be. Kaelren kisses me like he has been carrying a list of everything he wanted to do the moment we were alone. Now he starts at the top.
His hands grip my waist and lift me off the ground. My legs wrap around him instinctively, and he carries me backwarduntil my spine meets the wall. The living wood is warm against my back and gives slightly under the impact, cushioning me. Under normal circumstances, I might find that fascinating. At the moment, I can barely think about anything except his mouth and his hands and the indistinct sound he makes against my lips when I pull his hair.
“I have thought about this,” he says between kisses, his voice rough against my jaw, “every day since you scattered.”
“Every day?”
“Every hour.” His teeth graze along the side of my neck, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “Every minute I held that locket and felt nothing. Just silence where you used to be. I thought about your mouth. Your voice. The way you taste.” He bites down gently where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp. “I thought about what I would do when I had you alone again.”
“And what did you decide?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His silver eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide, and the corruption marks along his jaw pulse in time with his heartbeat. He looks wrecked and dangerous all at once, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump.
“Everything,” he says quietly. “I decided everything.”
Then he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, and carries me away from the wall toward the bed. He sets me down on the edge of it and drops to his knees in front of me.
The sight stops my breath.
Kaelren does not kneel. I have seen him stand in front of thrones and refuse to bow. I have watched him face kings, councils, and monsters with the same unbending spine. This is a man who fights his way through worlds instead of lowering himself to them.
And now he is on his knees in front of me.
The realization lands somewhere deep and instinctive, something older than reason. He is not surrendering. He is choosing me.
His hands slide up my thighs and his fingers curl into the waistband of my pants. He pauses there, looking up at me with those silver eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “and I stop.”
“If you stop,” I reply, “I will personally end you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Then his hands move, my pants are gone, and his mouth presses against the inside of my knee. Every coherent thought leaves my head in a single rush.
He takes his time. Of course he does. Kaelren does everything with precision and intent, and apparently that includes taking me apart with his mouth. He works up the inside of my thigh with slow, open kisses while his hands grip my hips to keep me steady. His breath is hot against my skin. Every few inches he pauses, presses his lips harder, drags his teeth lightly, and waits for the sound I make before moving higher.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I manage.
“I am doing everything on purpose.” His mouth reaches the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and he lingers there, breathing against me. He is close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not where I need it. “I have had months to plan how I want to worship you when I had you again, Elle. I will not rush.”
The wordworshipsends a shiver through me that he definitely feels. His grip tightens on my hips, and his exhale turns uneven.
“You have no idea,” he breathes, his voice vibrating against my skin, “what it did to me. Losing you. Holding that locket against my chest every night. Talking to you like you could hear me, knowing you probably couldn't.”
“I felt you.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “In the void. Not words. But through the bond. I could feel youpulling, like you were pressing your hand against a wall you could not break through.”
He goes still. His forehead rests against my thigh, and for a moment he simply breathes. I watch his shoulders rise and fall. His hands tighten slightly on my hips.
Something in him has just broken open.
“You felt me,” he whispers.
“The whole time. It kept me anchored.”
He lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are bright with something he would show no one else. Then he lowers his mouth exactly where I need him, and I stop being capable of forming sentences.
He is thorough and devastating. He uses his tongue, his lips, and his fingers with the same focused intensity he brings to battle strategy. He reads every sound I make, every shift of my hips, every catch in my breath, and adjusts accordingly. When I moan, he repeats whatever caused it. When I gasp, he pauses long enough to let the tension build before doing it again, harder.
