I didn’t care if it made me pathetic. It had been too many nights away from him. I needed him.
My hand reached behind me and found the door handle. It was, of course, locked.
I groaned. “Get this open,” I murmured against his mouth.
He grunted in agreement and I heard the jangling of silver and the rustling of his coat. When the door swung open, I nearly toppled backwards.
Atrius caught me, then pushed the door closed.
I was already reaching for him, ready to tear off his shirt—silk be damned. I expected he would do the same to me. That was how we fucked—frantically, like we were still racing against time or gods or curses.
But Atrius broke my kiss. “Do you like it?” he said.
“Hm?” I was chasing his mouth again, but he lifted his chin, gesturing to the room.
“Do you like it?”
I hadn’t even paused to take in the chamber.
The room was large and circular, tall windows on the western side revealing the horizon and a star-scattered sky. The furniture was finely carved—a massive bed in the center of the room, a set of living room furniture around the fireplace to the right, a glimpse of a beautiful washroom through a door to the left. A large bookcase, only half-full, stood floor-to-ceiling beside the fireplace.
“It was empty before,” Atrius said, noting my attention to the bookcase. Then added, flatly, “Not a surprise, considering the previous occupant.”
True. Tarkan didn’t seem like the reading type.
But I couldn’t even recognize this room as the place that tyrant had lived, cold and impersonal and full of suffering. This felt... comfortable.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
Atrius still held me against him, though the embrace now seemed less primal and more... affectionate. His fingers absentmindedly intertwined with mine. The gesture reminded me of the way he had stroked his horse’s mane back when we rode to Alka—instinctive affection. Then, I’d been so confused by his gentleness. Now, I wanted to sink into it.
“I’ve spent decades living in tents and outposts,” he said. “It’s… been a long time since I had to make a home I would live in for a long time.” His gaze slipped to me. “Or that someone else would.”
I blinked. I wasn’t sure if he was saying what I thought he was saying.
“This is your chamber,” I said.
His throat bobbed. He stared at me for a long moment, like he was grappling with something he didn’t know how to say, then turned me around and led me to the windows.
From the doorway, I had missed it. The little chair. The easel. The carefully arranged line of paint jars.
“It could be yours, too,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “If you wanted.”
I couldn’t speak. I touched the easel—touched each of the jars. I could sense their colors, but what delighted me even more is that, without my blindfold, I could see them if I held them very close to my face—just barely, just a tinge to the shadow.
So much more than paper.
Thank you seemed woefully inadequate. So instead, I turned around, wound my arms around his neck, and kissed him.
This kiss wasn’t like our others. It wasn’t desperate. Wasn’t rushed. It was slow and thorough, inhaling each other’s breath, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths as if getting reacquainted. His hands followed that lazy rhythm, running over my body, lingering on every curve. Not rushing to any of the places I wanted him to be.
Our movement to the bed was like vines growing across the forest floor. Slow and organic. He pushed me down into a nest of plush silk, unbearably soft compared to the hardness of his body above me. We didn’t tear our clothing off—we removed each piece patiently, like petals peeled back from a flower, discarded around us until, between our languid kisses, bare skin met bare skin.
Weaver, I wanted him. Even though this desire tonight was different—not animalistic lust. I wondered if he felt it too, because his lips trailed so patiently over mine, tasting my mouth, the angle of my jaw, the curve of my clavicle. Even when he lowered his head to my breast, my nipples hard and aching, his tongue working over them in ways that made my back arch and my breath hitch, I wasn’t impatient.
I savored him.
And when he finally returned to me, finally kissed me again, finally aligned himself with my entrance, he pushed himself into me slowly.
My thighs opened wider for him, encircling his waist. But unlike our usual frenzied trysts, I didn’t urge him harder. I moved with him as he pressed deep into me, allowing him all of me—allowing him to brand the deepest parts of me.
His mouth never left mine, tongue teasing me, lips testing every angle. We moved together as if connected by something deeper than flesh—and indeed, I could feel his presence, his threads, intertwining with mine.
He withdrew slowly and pushed back into me. The pleasure, for the slowness of the pace, was unbearable. Our shared moan vibrated against our lips. My hips rose to meet his.
“Atrius.”
I didn’t mean to say his name. It was just the only word I could form—the only thing I could think. I was surrounded by him. Atrius. Atrius. Atrius.
“Vi,” he whispered.
Another thrust. We writhed together, languishing in each other’s bodies.
Another. My cries of pleasure grew louder. His grip on my body firmer. We coiled around each other, tighter and tighter, drawing each other closer, wringing shared pleasure from our closeness.
His kiss deepened, fierce and slow and passionate, as he thrust into me, murmuring my name again into my lips.
Weaver, I loved to hear him say it.
I loved to have him this close to me.
I loved being this exposed to him, every part of me.
“Atrius,” I whimpered again, my fingernails digging into his back—a plea for him to stay with me, to come with me, to follow me into this oblivion.
“Yes,” he whispered, understanding, as always, all that I was saying.
And then he drew back, just enough so that his forehead pressed to mine, and with my eyes wide open I could see him—see his soul, his threads, see the blurry outline of his silhouette, his beautiful eyes, and above all, the confession in them as his hips thrust against mine and we threw ourselves over the edge together.
I clenched around him as I came, pulling him against me. He did the same, the two of us entwined so closely that I could no longer tell where his flesh ended and mine began.
When the ecstasy faded, he didn’t move. He just held me. He rolled to the side, pulling his weight off me, but his grip didn’t loosen, and I didn’t pull away from it.
I would never pull away from it.
A truth solidified in me, an echo of the confession I saw in his eyes then. I wouldn’t hide it from him.
Because that’s all it was. A truth.
“I love you,” I whispered, against the smooth flesh of his shoulder.
The reaction in his presence was immediate and sudden. I felt him stop breathing for a moment, then resume. Felt the skip in his steady heartbeat.
My chest warmed at that.
He pulled me closer and said against my hair, “You like the room then.”