Page 144 of The Villainess Chose Naps Over Death Flags

The kiss deepened, and Caroline felt herself melting into Caspian's embrace.

Caspian's hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone with surprising tenderness for someone called The Butcher of the North. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer on the garden bench.

Caroline's fingers threaded through his silver hair, loosening it from its tie until it fell around his shoulders. She'd wanted to do that for weeks—run her hands through that distinctive silver.

When they finally broke apart for air, both breathing hard, Caspian rested his forehead against hers.

"Caroline," he breathed, and her name sounded like a prayer.

"Caspian," she whispered back.

"I want you," he said quietly, his green eyes intense in the moonlight. "Not because of a spell. Not because of obligation or duty. But because I choose you. Because I want you."

Caroline felt her heart race. "I want you too. I choose you too."

"Here?" Caspian asked, glancing around the garden. "Now?"

Caroline looked at the fountain, the moonlight, the flowering bushes swaying gently in the night breeze. It was private enough. Romantic. And she didn't want to wait.

"Yes," she said. "Here. Now."

Caspian kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands moving to the tie of her robe.

The night air was cool against Caroline's skin, but Caspian's touch was warm. His hands traced patterns along her arms, her shoulders, the curve of her waist.

Caroline tugged at his loosened cravat, pulling it free, then worked on the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers.

This was different from the spell. Then, neither of them had been in control, driven by overwhelming magic.

Now, every touch was deliberate. Every kiss was a choice. Every moment was theirs.

Caspian's Matter Manipulation activated subtly—the stone bench beneath them softening slightly, becoming more comfortable. The nearby bushes grew just enough to provide additional privacy without blocking the moonlight.

"Better?" he murmured against her lips.

"Perfect," Caroline breathed.

Caspian’s hands slid down to her hips, guiding her gently as she shifted to straddle him on the wide stone bench. The robe fell open completely, pooling around her waist; his shirt hung loose on his shoulders, baring the hard planes of his chest to the moonlight. Caroline braced her hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her palms.

Caspian’s breath came faster as she settled over him. With one hand still steadying her hip, he reached down with the other, swiftly unbuttoning his trousers and easing the placket open just enough to free himself. The cool night air brushed against his heated skin for only a moment before Caroline’s warmth was there, close and inviting.

She rose slowly on her knees, positioning herself above him, and sank down with deliberate care—taking him in inch by inch, eyes never leaving his. Caspian’s breath hitched sharply; his fingers tightened on her hips, grounding himself as the slow, perfect stretch enveloped him. When she was fully seated, they both stilled for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, simply breathing each other in, hearts racing in shared wonder.

Then Caroline began to move.

At first it was gentle—small, rocking circles of her hips, soft rises and falls that drew quiet gasps from them both. Caspian’s hands roamed her back, tracing the line of her spine with reverent fingers, then settling again on her waist to steady her. Moonlight silvered her skin as she moved above him, hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders.

“Caspian,” she whispered, voice trembling with wonder.

He answered with a low, wordless sound, one hand sliding up to cup her breast, thumb brushing gently over the sensitive peak until she arched into his touch. The rhythm stayed slow, languid—each glide deliberate, each roll of her hips drawing them closer without hurry. She leaned forward to kiss him, soft and deep, swallowing the quiet groans that escaped him.

But the need between them had been building for weeks, and gentleness could only hold for so long.

Caroline’s movements grew bolder—hips lifting higher, sinking down harder, taking him deeper with every descent. Caspian’s restraint frayed; his hands gripped her tighter, guiding her into a faster rhythm. His head fell back against the bench, throat bared to the night sky, silver hair spilling across the stone as he met her thrusts with subtle lifts of his own.

She braced her hands on his chest, fingers curling against muscle and scar, riding him with growing urgency. The soft sounds of their breathing turned to quiet moans, then sharper gasps. Caspian’s hand slipped between them, fingers finding the small, swollen bud at the apex of her thighs and circling it gently at first, then with firmer pressure that matched the quickening pace of her hips.

The pleasure coiled tight and sudden. Caroline’s back arched, a soft cry escaping her as her release washed through her in warm, rolling waves—her body tightening around him in rhythmic pulses. The sensation dragged Caspian over the edge with her; his hips surged upward once, twice, and then he pulled her down hard, burying himself deep as he came with a low, shuddering groan against her neck.