I just lose myself in the feelings as I thrust down Sylar’s throat. My fingers find his obsidian hair, and I guide him onto my length at a speed that leaves me breathless. Sylar continues to groan, the vibrations sending me fucking soaring. With another loud shout, I spill down his throat.
While I wait for my soul to come back to my body, I close my eyes and pant, my fingers leaving Sy’s hair to clasp the tree behind me in hopes it makes me feel grounded. When I finally glance down at Sylar, there’s a vulnerable, almost proud look on his face. “Did I do okay?” he whispers, sounding unsure.
My thumb finds the stray cum that has spilled from his lips as I wipe it off. He realizes what I’m doing and reaches for my hand. He licks every last drop, and I swear I get hard again. Pulling him into a filthy kiss, I make out with him right there against the tree until he’s begging for me to return the favor. And I do. When we’re finished, I kiss him again on his lips, the taste of us mingling. “No one has ever wrecked me like this before, Sy. Not till you.”
Chapter ten
Sylar
Thehighnoonsunbeats down mercilessly over the market’s open training grounds, baking the dusty earth until the air itself seems to vibrate. Raylen steps up to the marksman’s line, the heavy timber of his bow balanced casually in his grip. The trial targets today are a notoriously difficult Emberleigh creation:Mirage Mist. Instead of solid straw, they are wavering, illusory rings of heat and vapor that shift and dance in the scorching light, making it nearly impossible to lock down a true center.
Raylen wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, his shoulders tensing as he raises the bow.
Before he can draw the string, a tall, cool shadow falls over him. My shadow. I step right into his personal space under the pretense of adjusting his form. My long fingers slide firmly over his biceps, intentionally shifting his stance.
“Your left shoulder is dropping five degrees, you oaf,” I mutter, my voice low and intentionally gruff. My hands linger on his heated skin, tracking the smooth lines of his tattoos, though my eyes betray me as they slip down from his brow to fix squarely on the teasing curve of his mouth.
Raylen doesn’t pull away. Instead, a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. Without even turning his head to look at the wavering vapor rings, he draws the feathered fletching back to his jaw and releases.
The bowstring snaps with a sharp, echoingtwang. The arrow cuts cleanly through the shifting heat waves, piercing the exact, invisible center of the illusory target. The Mirage Mist explodes into a harmless shower of sparkling rainbow condensation. The small crowd that has gathered to watch erupts into loud cheers.
“Hard to focus when my coach is trying to seduce me with his sexy, nerdy charms,” Raylen teases, leaning his head back just enough to flash me a brilliant, lilac-eyed wink.
I immediately yank my hands back, my face flaming hotter than the damn sun, but the official proctor is already stepping forward. With a grand flourish of his quill, he logs the impossible shot into his ledger, officially entering Raylen’s name into the high-stakes championship tournament.
The roar of the training grounds fades behind us, but the triumphant grin on Raylen’s face remains completely unbothered.
“Come celebrate my win with me,” he commands, his fingers wrapping securely around my wrist and tugging me out of thedusty training grounds before the lingering proctors can crowd him.
He navigates us through the labyrinth of the market to his favorite pub. The place is a lively, open-air tavern tucked beneath a canopy of weeping willows. The atmosphere here is thick with celebratory energy. Joyful, fast-paced folk music ripples through the air from a trio of mandolin players, and off to the side, Cinder is happily yipping, playfully flying in erratic, joyful loops next to a pair of dancing elves who are entirely charmed by her antics.
The tavern is chaotic, and the menu board is a dizzying blur of local brews, but before the familiar knot of decision-anxiety can tighten in my chest, Raylen takes charge. He smoothly places an order for both of us, getting me a cold, sweet pear-mead and a plate of salted flatbread. Relief washes over me so intensely it makes me dizzy, a profound happiness settling into my ribs.
He filters out the noise so I don’t have to.
We slide into a shaded booth, the wood cool against my back. Raylen leans his elbows on the table, shifting closer until our thighs press firmly together. The victory has made him bold, his eyes burning with an intense, heavily flirtatious light that sets my skin on fire.
“So,” I say, taking a long, grateful sip of the mead. “Now that you are officially a championship contender, perhaps you can finally tell me what the legendary Archer of Moonscliffe has actually been doing for the last few years.”
Raylen chuckles, his fingers tracing lazy circles on the condensation of his glass, occasionally brushing against my knuckles. “Honestly, Sy? It’s not as glamorous as the broadsheets make it sound. The past three years have mostly just been a blur of grueling archery competitions, sleeping in various woodland camps, and traveling from kingdomto kingdom with Cinder acting as my terrifyingly high-maintenance co-pilot.”
He looks up, his gaze dropping to my lips. “It was loud. It was fast. And it was incredibly lonely.”
My heart stumbles at the raw honesty in his voice.
“And what about you?” he asks softly, trailing a thumb over the back of my hand. “What happened after I left town?”
“I went to university at the bottom of the mountain,” I tell him, the admission tasting a bit heavy on my tongue. “It was… a massive culture shock. But I never wanted to leave Dun Steorra territory entirely. I chose a school close by because—” I hesitate, looking down at our touching fingers. “Because I wanted to be close to my mother and sister. If they ever needed me, I couldn’t be hundreds of miles away. As soon as I graduated and returned home, I took up the tutoring position. That was seven years ago now.”
Raylen looks at me, his expression softening into something so fiercely tender it catches my breath in my throat. He doesn’t call me overprotective. He doesn’t call me rigid. He just smiles, as if my fierce loyalty to my family is the most beautiful thing he’s ever encountered.
“Seven years,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my neck. “My sister says you’re her favorite tutor.”
I nod.
The low afternoon sun shifts through the willow branches, hitting the front of my tunic and casting a bright, metallic reflection across the table. Raylen freezes. His gaze locks onto the silver, cylindrical-shaped locket that’s settled against my chest. His signature pendant and silent public claim I haven’t taken off since he gave it to me.
A sudden, dark heat flares in his hooded eyes, entirely scorching away the playful banter.
