Seraya’s POV
I had left the door unlatched.
The fire was down to its last breath, just enough to cast flickering shadows over the stone, over my skin, over the silence that thickened the room. The robe I wore was open—loose, parted—my breasts bare beneath it, the curve of my stomach rising and falling with every shallow breath. The sheets beneath me still held his scent. Leather. Smoke. Skin.
And I was already slick between my thighs, aching for him.
Not tender. Not soft.
Hungry.
He didn’t knock.
He never did.
The door creaked. My breath hitched. I didn’t move. I let the anticipation burn slowly, let it crawl down my spine and settle between my legs like a threat.
I heard his boots first—slow, unhurried, purposeful. I felt him before I saw him, the shift of air, the weight of his presence like a storm pressing into the room. When I turned my head, he stood at the edge of the bed, already peeling off his coat.
He didn’t speak. He never did on nights like this.
His eyes raked over me—dark, starved, primal. His jaw tensed as he stripped, slow and steady. The tunic came next, pulled over his head, baring the sculpted planes of his chest, the rough scars, the muscles tight with need.
He stripped like a man shedding war.
And when he was bare, I reached for him.
My hand curled open in silent invitation, and he came to me.
He crawled over the bed with the weight of a command, settling between my legs, pressing the full length of his body down against mine. I could feel him already—hard, hot, heavy, dragging against my thigh.
I moaned—soft, desperate—as he kissed the corner of my mouth, then my throat, then lower. His tongue traced the line of my collarbone, slow and possessive. One hand slid down my side, pushing the robe fully open, baring everything.
Then his hand dipped lower. His fingers grazed the slick fold between my thighs, slow and searching. He found my entrance and eased one finger inside. The stretch was gentle, his fingertip curling slightly, pressing upward—my body clenched in response. Then a second finger joined the first, filling me tighter, moving deeper.
The sound I made was breathless, involuntary. He felt it. Felt me. The heat, the slick pulse of me fluttering around his fingers. “You’re already wet,” he growled into my skin.
He pulled his fingers free—slow, reluctant, as if he enjoyed the way my body tried to hold onto him. Then he moved, positioning himself between my thighs. His cock pressed against me, heavy and hot, dragging up through my folds. He didn’t enter me yet—just slid himself along my slick entrance, stroking my lips, teasing the swollen ache that throbbed for him.
I arched, breath trembling.
“Please…” I whispered, the word breaking. “Please, Caelum…”
He didn’t answer. He surged forward and entered me in one smooth, sudden thrust.
I gasped—loud, choked—my body arching as the thick length of him split me open, filled me deep. The sensation flooded me, sharp and perfect, the stretch delicious, his cock so hot inside me it made me whimper.
He filled every inch of me. Every nerve ending flared to life, throbbing around him. My walls fluttered, trying to adjust, to take all of him. And he didn’t move—not yet. He held himself there, buried deep, letting me feel the weight of him inside me.
“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “You feel… so good… so tight—”
Caelum groaned, the sound scraped from his throat, and then he started to move—slow, grinding thrusts that made my body shudder beneath him. Every pull, every slide of him against my walls sent another wave of pleasure crawling up my spine.
“Look at me,” he murmured, voice raw.
I met his eyes. And he moved faster.
His hips snapped against mine, harder now, the rhythm hungry, deliberate. I clung to him, fingers digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist as he drove into me. The slick sounds of our bodies filled the room, mixed with the soft slap of skin, with the breathy moans I couldn’t hold back.
“More,” I whispered. “I need more…”
He pulled back and slammed into me.
I cried out, loud and filthy, and he moaned—low and rough—driving into me again, again, again. The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. Our bodies collided in rhythm, a tempo built on need, on anger, on something neither of us could name.
“Harder,” I begged, legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
He obeyed.
He gripped my thigh, lifted it higher, opening me wider as he moved deeper. His mouth found my breast, teeth grazing the peak, then sucking hard enough to make my back arch off the bed. Pleasure exploded—white-hot, pulsing—and I cried out.
“Oh god…” I moaned.
“You like that?” he grunted. “You like being taken like this?”
I looked into his eyes while he rammed his inside me. “Yes. please… don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
And then, suddenly, he flipped me over in one brutal motion, dragging my hips up and plunging back into me from behind. I cried out into the sheets, the pleasure sharp, consuming. His hand twisted in my hair, yanking my head back so his mouth could meet my neck, my shoulder, biting hard enough to mark.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Take every fucking inch.”
His hand clamped around my waist as he pounded into me, driving deep, his hips relentless. The pleasure was overwhelming—sharp, almost unbearable, but I wanted it. I needed it. He twisted his hand into my hair and yanked my head back, forcing my spine to arch, his mouth at my neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that would linger.
I moaned helplessly, my voice caught somewhere between a sob and a plea. “Harder,” I whispered. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop—”
He thrust deeper, faster. My body shook, eyes rolling back as the pleasure crashed through me in waves. I spasmed around him, my climax tearing through me with a scream I couldn’t control. I clutched the sheets, breath ragged, legs trembling violently.
But Caelum didn’t stop.
He chased his high with a brutal rhythm, one hand on my hip, the other sliding between my legs to rub me through it. I moaned louder, incoherent, drooling into the pillow.
“God… Seraya—fuck—I’m—”
He came with a sharp groan, thrusting deep, filling me with his heat, his grip tightening on my hips as his body locked.
He didn’t speak.
He just stayed—still inside me, breath catching on my skin, his hand on my thigh, grounding us both.
Eventually, he pulled me close. Fingers laced with mine beneath the covers, like it meant something.
But when he finally moved, I turned away, into the pillow.
And I cried.
Not because it hurt.
But because I wanted more.
30
