Page 108 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

He did. Over and over, between thrusts, against her skin, into her mouth, her name on his tongue like a prayer. Her hips faltered. Close. So close. The pressure coiled tighter. She felt him pulse inside her, his control fraying.

He flipped them over.

She gasped at the sudden change, at the depth from this angle again. Her eyes flew open.

“Not yet,” he said, low and rough, staring down at her. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He plunged deep—once, twice. Her hands flew to his chest, palms flat to his heated skin. She traced the dark swirls spiraling over his pectorals, curling around his ribs. His rhythm faltered. Her fingertip chased the curve of a swirl moving toward his heart, and he hissed. Another, winding down his sternum, and his jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his throat. The marks over his ribs made him shudder. The ones near his hip made him thrust harder.

She smiled—a wicked, wondering, powerful smile—and kept exploring. Mapping him. Learning the language written on his skin with nothing but her touch.

“You’re—” His voice broke. “Your hands. Cassia, I can’t⁠—”

She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and traced a knot of markings just above his hip with her thumb.

He snapped.

His rhythm broke—raw, urgent. Each thrust drove her higher, punched broken cries from her throat. The pressure coiled tighter, hotter. She shut her eyes. Clung to him. Couldn’t do anything else.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

She forced her eyes open. His gaze was fierce, golden, burning—holding hers as he moved inside her, as the pleasure crested.

Her gaze locked on his, she broke apart.

The orgasm ripped through her, her body clenching in rhythm with her cries. She heard herself scream his name, felt his answering groan as he spilled inside, his hips working her through it until she went limp beneath him, spent and breathless.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. His heart pounded against her chest—wild, then slowing. His forehead rested against hers, their breath uneven.

He lowered himself to the side and gathered her close.

“Cassia.” Her name, spoken like a vow.

He kissed her shoulder, her temple, her closed eyelids. He tucked her hair behind her ear. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.

She had never known sex could be like this. Not just a collision of want, but an act of devotion. It was worship and sanctuary, all at once. And this—to be cherished without having to ask—this was what altered a person.

She closed her eyes.

This was what coming home felt like.

26

ARK

Ark surfaced slowly, blinking against the soft grey light. His body ached in ways that had nothing to do with cleansings or cursed mirrors—a deeper, sweeter exhaustion, layered from hours of Cassia. Her warmth still clung to the bed, but she was gone. He turned his head just as something cold and damp pressed against his wrist.

Anuck’s nose.

The cat sat on the pillow beside him, tail flicking, his yellow eyes narrowed. He sniffed again and gave another firm nudge, as though ensuring Ark didn’t die overnight—or possibly expressing mild disappointment that he hadn’t.

Ark blinked at him. “Good morning to you too.”

The cat gave a low chuff, brushed his tail across Ark’s face, and leapt down from the bed with the offended grace of a little king who’d been usurped.

Ark pushed himself upright slowly. The room was quiet, the morning cold, but the warmth in his chest hadn’t faded.

Cassia had kissed him at dawn, he remembered now. Her soft lips had brushed his brow, fingers lingering briefly against his cheek. Her voice, low as to not awaken him, whispered something about starting her morning routine. He’d reached for her, but she was already gone, her warmth fading from the sheets.