Every other time we’d been together, he had been so careful to make sure he never trapped me. Make sure I always was free to get away if I wanted to.
Not long ago, the idea of ever having sex with anyone again in a position where I couldn’t extract myself immediately was inconceivable. And yet, here I was. Not even noticing that he’d trapped me, with a rapid heartbeat that had nothing at all to do with fear.
I reached around his body, dragging my fingernails down his back—lingering at the delicate flesh and soft feathers where his wings met his skin.
It was a guess, really, as to whether he felt those nerve endings the way that I did. But his entire body reacted to that touch. His breath shuddered. His wings—those majestic wings—shivered, unfolding slightly, big enough to cocoon us both in a sheet of black-red. His cock twitched, hips pushing a little against me in a movement that seemed totally involuntary.
I smirked. “I know I’m still in control.”
His eyebrow quirked. “No objections,” he murmured, and kissed me again.
Just as I tilted my hips, opened my thighs, and he sank into me.
Goddess fucking help me.
He hit so deep from this angle, that very first thrust setting my body alight like a match.
I didn’t realize I’d made a sound until his mouth covered mine and he whispered, “Careful. Others are close.”
Oh, I heard that taunt in his voice—saying that just as he swirled his hips, grinding against my clit.
I bit down on my moan, and choked out, “Then you’ll have to be so quiet, won’t you?”
I dragged my fingers down his back again—giving him the same challenge he gave me, and relishing the slight growl that came from low in his throat.
He didn’t have a retort for me. I had unleashed him. Just as I’d wanted. Just as I needed.
All that pent-up tension, from the battle and the travel and a week spent in agonizing, untouchable proximity, burst free.
He kissed me hard, viciously, as his strokes took me—seizing full advantage of the control he had in this position, unrelenting, fast, deep.
This wouldn’t last long. Not for me, not for him. That was fine—we were too impatient for that. Who knew how long we had left to live. We would burn ourselves hot and quick.
And Mother, I loved it.
My skin was so warm, the pleasure so intense, I thought I might die here in it. And Goddess, what a fucking way to go. Moans and screams and pleas and curses bubbled up in my throat, driven closer to the surface with every one of his thrusts.
I needed more, needed release. I tilted my hips to urge him deeper, though there was nothing I could do but take him—and I did, gladly, openly, clinging to him and clawing at his back for support.
His mouth broke from mine, moving to my ear.
“This,” he rasped, breath hot and ragged. “This is what I was thinking about, Oraya. I missed you.”
I missed you.
Strange, how much those words hit me—how much I understood them, even if I couldn’t bring myself to say them back.
I missed you.
A week without touching him, and I missed him. Months without his friendship, and I missed him.
It wasn’t about a week. It wasn’t even about sex.
It was about everything before that. Repairing some chasm that had opened in our relationship. Finding, terrifyingly, how much we had mourned what had been lost in that gap.
I had missed him, too.
But I couldn’t voice it. And I was grateful that he didn’t give me the chance to, anyway, because his strokes were unrelenting, the pleasure building to a crescendo that was—Goddess it was—it was so much that it almost hurt, and— I tightened my legs around him, pulling him against me, forcing him to go up in flames with me.
I buried my face against his shoulder when I climaxed, stifling my scream against his skin, because I couldn’t choke it down anymore. Distantly, with the crescendo of pleasure, I felt a brief stab of pain—pain, as his teeth sank into the space between my neck and shoulder. Not feeding—stifling himself, too, his groan instead ringing out in shudders across my flesh.
In the wake of it, I felt weak and dizzy. And yet, so very at peace.
The water was warm.
That was the first sensation that returned. All this pleasant warmth. Warmth of the water. Warmth of Raihn’s body, surrounding me. Warmth everywhere.
He kissed the mark he’d left on my shoulder. “Sorry.”
“I think I scratched up your back.”
A breathy chuckle. “Good.”
That’s how I felt, too. Good. Let us leave something on each other’s corpses.
He drew back enough to look at me, tracing my face. He had little beads of water in his lashes, which glittered as his eyes crinkled in an almost-smile.
It occurred to me that this might be the only time I got to be alone with Raihn before we threw ourselves into a mission that would probably kill one or both of us. The thought made a lump of unspoken words rise in my throat.
Instead, I kissed him—hard enough that there was no use for words, anyway.
I felt him start to harden again within me, my thighs tightening around him.
I whispered against his lips, “We might not get privacy again.”
Because the moment we left this bath, we would be leaders again. We would be reclaimers of a lost kingdom. We would need to think about the future. There would be no time for the present.
I wasn’t ready to leave.
He smiled softly. “Mm. Probably not.”
My hips rolled against him, breath hitching at the now-rigid length inside me.
Goddess fucking help me. How did he do that?
“Might as well take advantage,” I murmured.
“Just practical,” he said, swallowing the words in his next kiss, and that was the last we spoke.
53
RAIHN
I was glad that Oraya and I had made the most of our time alone, because we didn’t get any more of it after that. Everyone understood that time was of the essence. The faster we struck, the better our chances at seizing Sivrinaj while Simon’s hold over it was still shaky. Jesmine and Vale clearly hated each other, but they made surprisingly effective allies. Both now understood what it was like to be the underdog, and both understood the mindset of the upper class. They emphatically believed that now was not the time to try something risky and sneaky—this was the time for a dramatic show of strength. The only language, they insisted, that Simon and those who followed him would understand.
I hated having to speak that language. But I wasn’t too obsessed with the moral high ground to not stoop to their level. No point in thinking about the chances. Oraya and I had defeated worse odds before—seven times, in fact, in seven trials. How much harder could this possibly be?