“Bedroom?” I ask, feeling control slipping through my fingers like water.
“Door,” she pants, nodding toward the narrow hallway.
I pick her up, her weight solid and real against me. She wraps arms and legs around my frame, kissing my neck as I carry her through the cottage. The bedroom sits at the end of the hall, sparsely furnished—a carved wooden bed frame, a woven rug on the floor, a single lantern casting long shadows across white sheets.
I lay us both down, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. Her hair has come loose from its bun, dark strands spilling across the pillow.
“Undress me,” she whispers, her eyes finding mine in the low light.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of her blouse, a task made more difficult by the way my hands want to shake. The fabric parts to reveal the curve of her collarbone, then the soft swell of her breasts. The sight of her bare skin sends heatrushing through me, my cock already painfully hard against the confines of my trousers.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words rasping out of me. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I first saw you in the village square.”
Her breath catches, and for a moment, she looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen—unarmed, unprotected, entirely present.
“Touch me,” she begs.
I cup her breasts with both hands, her nipples hardening against my palms. I lean down to take one in my mouth, tasting salt and skin. My other hand slides down the plane of her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt.
Her pussy is wet, slick with desire, and she arches off the bed when I find her clit with my fingertips.
“Calla, are you sure?” I ask, rubbing slow circles against that sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Yes,” she says, her voice breaking on the word. She fists her hand in my hair again, pulling me up for a deep, desperate kiss. The taste of her mixes with the fading remnants of whatever spices she used in the now abandoned dish she was cooking.
The need for her drowns every rational thought still clinging to my skull. I stand enough to fumble with the buttons on my trousers, pushing the rough-woven fabric down my hips until my cock springs free, hard and aching for her warmth. I kick my trousers aside, my shirt following in a heap on the floorboard near the bed.
“I need to—” My voice scratches against my throat.
“Yes,” she cuts me off, understanding already. Her hands reach for my hips, pulling me back to her as I settle between her parted thighs. Her eyes track the movement of my cock as I press myself against her entrance, her lips parted on a shaky breath.
I push into her slowly, the drag of her tight, wet heat around me stealing my air. Her eyes glaze over, a flutter of dark lashes against her cheekbones as her mouth drops open in a silent, breathless gasp.
“Alright?” I rasp, holding still, my own control stretched to its breaking point by the sheer perfection of this moment.
“Don’t stop.” The words are ghostly, breathed out rather than spoken.
I start moving, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen as she opens for me. The rhythm finds itself, my hips working against hers, the room filling with the soft slap of skin and her ragged breaths. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, blunt pressure through the fabric of my undershirt, which remains half-on, half-forgotten.
On one thrust, I hook my hands under her thigh and lift her leg over my shoulder. The position opens her wider, exposes her more fully to my gaze, and allows me to sink deeper than before. She cries out, a sharp, startled sound that melts into a long, low moan.
“Harder,” she breathes, her head tipping back into the pillow. “Please, Brakkor.”
My name on her lips unspools something inside me. The measured, careful rhythm fractures into something more frantic, more desperate. My thrusts lose their precision, driven by the sight of her unraveling beneath me. Her perfect composure shatters with each snap of my hips, replaced by a wildness that matches the frantic beat of my heart.
She’s so beautiful like this—flushed, undone, her sleek hair a dark tangle against the white linen. So damn sexy I can hardly stand to look at her without losing my mind.
“Calla.” Her name is a plea, a curse, a prayer. I lean down, stealing a messy, breathless kiss as my body drives into hers.The bedframe groans in protest, the sound swallowed by her desperate moans.
My hips piston between her thighs, chasing the frantic, desperate rhythm she set. I take her deeper, harder. Every thrust jolts the headboard against the wall. Every cry that escapes her lips sounds better than the last.
“You feel incredible,” I grind out, my voice raw, broken. “I’ve been wanting—” The words catch as I bottom out inside her, her inner walls hugging me impossibly tight. “I’ve been wanting to know how good you feel.”
She arches her back, a sharp gasp punching from her lungs as I press deeper still. Her eyes lock on mine. “So have I.”
The admission hangs, sharp and stunning, in the heated air between us.
“What?” The question escapes before I can censor it.
