CW: smut

  The tch clicked shut.

  Rocher's gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to the robe I wore. His hand, which had been resting on my hip, moved with a slow, deliberate intent. He traced the line of my ribs, his thumb stroking the fabric just below my chest. I startled.

  "Hold on a second," I blurted. "These are Seraphine's."

  I reached for the knot, but his fingers were already there. With one careful tug, the tie loosened. The robe slid open and fell down around me before I could react.

  "I knew it," he said breathlessly. "You weren't wearing anything underneath."

  I scooped up the robe automatically, folding it because my hands needed something to do.

  "Her smallclothes didn't really fit. I managed to get the bottoms on, but it's… tight."

  He watched me pull at the fabric, readjusting. His eyes lingered just long enough to make heat crawl up my throat.

  I turned slightly, sheepish, my arm doing little to hide the generous curve of my chest. "Actually, where I'm from, this sort of thing was kind of fashionable for dies."

  He smiled warmly at my excuse. "Then I definitely don't know much about fashion."

  With graceful ease, he closed the small distance between us. One hand cupped the back of my neck; the other settled at my waist. For a moment, he just held me, looking longingly into my eyes. Then his lips met mine again—not gentle, but with a confident, possessive pressure that answered the heat pooling low in my belly.

  The kiss deepened, and his hands began to roam. One traced the delicate line of my colrbone, his thumb stroking the hollow of my throat. The other slid from my hip around to the small of my back, pulling me flush to him, the rough texture of his tunic a stark, abrasive contrast against my bare skin. His fingers spyed wide, mapping the curve of my spine, each touch a brand that made my knees tremble.

  For a moment, I was lost in it, melting against the solid warmth of his body. But as his hand drifted up to explore the bare skin of my shoulder bdes, a jolt of something sharp and cold cut through the haze of desire. It was the feeling of his clothes—his tunic, his trousers—scratching against me. A sudden, overwhelming sense of imbance washed over me.

  I was completely exposed, every inch of me open to his touch, his gaze. And he was still fully, frustratingly clothed.

  With a surge of willpower I didn't know I possessed, I broke the kiss, turning my head to the side. My breathing was ragged. I pushed lightly against his chest, not to shove him away, but to create a sliver of space.

  "This isn't…" I breathed, the words coming out as a shaky puff of air against his neck. "...it's not fair."

  He stilled, his hands resting on my back. "What isn't?"

  "You." I looked up, meeting his deep, green eyes. "You're still dressed."

  A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.

  He gave a slight nod, then took a step back. His eyes never left mine as he hooked his thumbs under his tunic and drew it over his head. The fabric scraped over the chiseled pne of his stomach and hard lines of his chest as he dropped it to the floor. Then he loosened the ces of his trousers. The leather whispered, and with a single push, they were gone, pooled at his feet.

  He stood before me, naked and unashamed, his body a silhouette carved from shadow and firelight. The air grew heavy with the smoky scent of him. His build was all size and power and controlled grace, broad shoulders and defined muscle flowing downward until his waist tapered to—

  I blushed, turning away. Now it was I who felt overdressed in my own skin, anchored only by his quietly reverent gaze.

  The moment snapped taut between us. He closed the distance in a single stride, his hands cupping my face as his mouth cimed mine again. This kiss was different—hungrier, more demanding, an acknowledgment of the naked desire now burning between us, palpable and thick.

  His hand left my cheek, trailing down my neck and over my colrbone until it cupped the weight of my breast. His thumb brushed against my nipple, and I gasped into his mouth at the jolt of pleasure. He did it again, slower this time, a deliberate circling motion that made the peak tighten into a hard, aching point. His other hand joined the first, giving my other breast the same attention, and I was lost, arching into his touch, begging for more.

  My hands slid them up his arms, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath my palms, tracing strength I had only imagined until now. My grip tightened, a silent plea I did not trust my voice to make.

  With a low growl, his hands left my breasts and gripped my waist. In one smooth motion, he lifted me. I gasped, my arms flying around his neck as he took two steps to the bed and fell back, pulling me with him. I nded with a soft thud, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. I was straddling him, my bare skin pressed against the hard, hot length of him.

  He was big. Of course he was.

  But actually feeling him—the sheer, undeniable size of his erection pressing insistently against my belly—sent a wave of pure, unadulterated lust through me. The heat flooded my core, and I could feel it all the way from my navel to the apex of my thighs.

  But with it came a spike of panic. Things were moving too fast. There was a line I couldn't cross.

  I pushed myself up, my palms ft on the solid pne of his chest, breaking our kiss. I breathed hard, my hair falling around my face.

  "Wait," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my limbs. "We need to set rules."

  His hands, which had been gripping my hips, stilled. He looked up at me, his chest rising and falling with his own ragged breaths. A flicker of something—confusion, maybe disappointment—crossed his features before being repced by careful attentiveness.

  "Rules?"

  "Yes." I swallowed. "This... can continue. But we can't do anything that jeopardizes my holy magic."

  He nodded slowly, sincerely. "Of course. I'll stay inside the lines you draw."

  Relief swept through me so hard my vision swam.

  I was still straddling him, still throbbing with a need that his concession did nothing to quell. His erection was still a hot, huge presence against my belly, a promise of everything he was holding back, everything he could still give me.

  My decision was made. I leaned down, my hair curtaining our faces, and sealed my mouth over his. This kiss was my answer, my thank you for his understanding. As our tongues met, I shifted my weight, tracing my hands down the hard pnes of his chest until my fingers wrapped around the thick, rigid heat of his shaft.

  He was silky smooth over steel, impossibly hard, and so hot it felt like he might burn me. The sheer size of him was staggering, my small hand looking pale and slender against his dark, flushed skin. As my fingers tightened, learning his shape and his length, his hips jerked upward. A rough, guttural grunt was torn from his throat, a sound of pure, unguarded need that sent a corresponding thrill straight through me.

  I began to stroke him, slowly at first, establishing a rhythm. My fingers glided, long and firm, from his base all the way to the sensitive tip. With every pass, his breathing grew harsher, his hands tightening on my hips. He wasn't passive—his grip guided me, subtly encouraging the speed and pressure he craved. I could feel the coiled tension in his thighs, the way his muscles strained beneath me.

  I broke the kiss, panting, to look down at him.

  His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the pillows, his face a mask of intense concentration and pleasure. The sight of him so undone, so completely at my mercy, was intoxicating. I quickened my pace, my small hand flying over his length, my own body responding to the raw, visceral power of his arousal.

  The room was filled with the slick sounds of my touch and the low, desperate sounds he was making, and I knew I wouldn't stop until I had shattered him completely. His body tightened, taut as a bowstring—

  And suddenly his hand shot out and cmped around my wrist.

  His grip was firm, almost desperate. His breath came in harsh, ragged pants, his chest heaving. I looked down, confused, to see his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched as if fighting a battle.

  "Not yet," he begged, his voice strained to breaking. "Please, Cire."

  He held my wrist for a moment longer, his pulse hammering against my skin, then released it as if it burned him. He didn't try to move me. Instead, he colpsed back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling as he fought for control. I was still straddling him, still in charge, but the tables of intent had turned.

  His eyes, when they opened, were dark with a new kind of desperation. It was no longer just for his own release, but for mine.

  He looked up at me, his gaze intense and piercing. "Your turn now," he rasped. "Tell me what you want, Cire. I'll do anything."

  I bit my lip. Heat flooded my face. I didn't know how to answer him—everything felt so new, so strange and unfamiliar. All I had was the experience of my past life to lean on.

  "Could... could you py with me..." My voice dropped to a meek whisper. "...back there?"

  As soon as I said it, regret filled me immediately.

  "Never mind," I blurted. "You don't have to. I know it's weird."

  My words came out small, quick, a frantic attempt to shove the vulnerable request back into the box I'd pried it open from.

  A slow, gentle smile spread across Rocher's face, completely disarming me. It wasn't a smirk or a leer; it was warm, understanding, and it made my heart ache. He shook his head.

  "No," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "It's not weird."

  One of his hands, which had been resting on my hip, slid slowly around my waist. His palm traced a path up my spine, a comforting, possessive gesture that made me shudder. He leaned up, his lips brushing against my ear.

  "Nothing about you is weird, Cire. I'll touch you however and wherever you want it."

  He settled back against the pillows, his eyes locked on mine—a final, questioning look. I gave a small, trembling nod, giving him my permission.

  His hand left my back and slid down my body, down my spine and over the dimples of my back. The touch was slow, deliberate, giving me time to object, to pull away.

  I didn't. I held my breath, my body tensing with anticipation.

  His fingers ghosted over the stretched fabric of the smallclothes, tracing the warm, hidden curve of my backside. And then, with a feather-light pressure, he began to stroke the sensitive skin just behind the cloth.

  A soft gasp escaped my lips. It was a gentle, teasing touch, and it was already undoing me. My hips began to move of their own accord, a slow, rocking rhythm against the hard length of him still pressed between us. The dual sensations—his careful touch and the maddening friction of thin, soaked fabric against his rigid shaft—were overwhelming. My hands spyed against his broad chest, warm skin and steady breath anchoring me as everything else blurred.

  He took it as an invitation. The pressure of his fingers grew firmer. He found the sensitive pce I had been too shy to name and began to circle it directly, learning my body's responses. Every nerve ending I had came alive, fire shooting through my veins. My rocking became more desperate, grinding down against him to coax more from the ache. The room was filled with our uneven breaths and the slick, rustling sounds of the fabric, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in us both.

  Lost in the haze, I arched, pushing myself harder against his hand and his shaft, a silent, begging plea for more.

  He answered. With one careful, deliberate movement, he stopped circling and pressed, his finger slipping in just past the first knuckle. A jolt went through me. The pressure was direct, insistent, stretching me in a way I hadn't anticipated; a sudden, shocking sensation that was both unexpected and overwhelming.

  I cried out, my whole body seizing up. "Wait! Stop!"

  Instantly, his hand froze. He pulled back as if I'd struck him, his eyes flying open, all traces of desire gone, repced by sharp arm.

  "Cire? Did I hurt you?"

  I was shaking my head before he'd even finished the sentence, my breath coming in ragged.

  "It didn't hurt. I just... I wasn't expecting it." I looked down, my face burning with shame. "I'm not ready for that. Not yet."

  He watched me, his expression softening with understanding. He didn't speak, just waited.

  "I'll be more prepared next time," I whispered, the promise hanging in the air between us, shy and hopeful.

  A slow, genuine smile bloomed on his face, chasing away the st of his concern. It was the smile that had undone me from the start.

  "Next time," he echoed, voice soft as a vow.

  He leaned up and captured my lips in a kiss—gentle, reassuring, and full of unspoken promise. His hand returned to its previous pce, his touch once again light and teasing, circling and stroking until the fire in my belly began to build anew. My own hand found him again, and we slipped back into a slow, rocking rhythm of hands and mouths.

  The room filled with our breathless gasps and the slick sounds of our touch, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in us both until, with a shared cry that was more sensation than sound, we broke together, our bodies trembling in the firelight.