CHAPTER 104: HIS DESIRE

Lorraine’s heart pounded as though it would break free of her chest. He never asked that out of her before. And the way he asked... like claiming her... as if he owned her... as if she owned him... as if they belonged together and owed that much...

Her fingers trembled as they closed around him, hesitant at first, then firmer when she felt his sharp inhale against her lips. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening as if her touch alone undid him. She stroked him slowly, her small hand learning the weight, the heat, the pulse that throbbed beneath her fingers.

"Lorraine..." His voice cracked, rough with restraint, and when he opened his eyes again, they burned with need so fierce she nearly forgot to breathe. He guided her hand, showing her the rhythm he craved, his breath ragged as he kissed her in between groans of pleasure.

She watched his face, the way it contorted—half agony, half rapture—as though he had waited years for this moment. His need was heavy in her palm, his body trembling under the gentleness of her strokes, until he pulled her hand away with a low growl, pressing it back against his chest.

"I’ll lose myself if you keep that up," he murmured, kissing her forehead, her temple, her lips again in a fevered rush. He pressed her back into the sheets, pinning her there with the sheer weight of his desire, his body straining against the last threads of control.

When he surged forward, guiding himself into her , it was slow, almost painful in its intensity, with trembling patience, inch by inch, watching her face for every flicker of pain, every gasp, his forehead resting against hers as he breathed through the shock of it. Her nails dug into his arms, her breath hitched, but her eyes, those brave, unflinching eyes, never left his, as she tightened around him.

When at last he was fully inside her, they both stilled, clinging to one another as though the world outside had ceased to exist. His forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingled, their hearts pounding in unison.

Then he began to move, slow at first, reverent, as though memorizing her from the inside out. She rose to meet him, every shift of her hips a wordless plea, every gasp from her lips a surrender. The rhythm built between them, urgency overtaking restraint, passion swallowing reverence until it was both—wild and tender, desperate and worshipful.

He kissed her through it, whispered her name against her skin, promised survival in every thrust, until she broke beneath him again, and he followed, shuddering, groaning her name as though it were his last prayer.

Afterward, he collapsed against her, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his body still trembling with exhaustion and release. She held him close, her fingers absently tracing the shape of his shoulder, their breaths mingling in the quiet.

He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. "You’re keeping your nails short," he murmured, before a soft chuckle escaped him.

Lorraine’s cheeks burned. She remembered that night in her tower, when in the tangle of shadows he had bitten at her nails, laughing at her clumsiness. She did keep them short after that, just for him. She hadn’t realized how much it mattered.

He lifted himself then, bracing above her. His green eyes gleamed, brighter, clearer, as though something in him had been renewed. He smoothed a hand over her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She cupped his neck in return, her thumb brushing along the strong line of his jaw as he pulled away.

"Say my name," he whispered, leaning close to her ear.

Her heart nearly stopped before it thundered in her chest. The faint smile on her lips faltered. What was he asking of her? Did he truly want... to hear her voice?

His gaze searched hers, steady and yearning. His lips trembled, not from uncertainty but from desire, not for her body, but for her to claim him, to speak his name as his wife.

She felt the weight of the moment crush down on her. This was dangerous. If she slipped, if she revealed too much, she could lose him forever. Yet those green eyes were looking at her with a love so unguarded, so absolute, it left her breathless.

Her eyes misted. She parted her lips. He waited, his whole body taut with anticipation.

But before a sound could escape, a sharp knock rattled the door.

Lorraine flinched. She tried to sit up, but his hand pressed gently to her shoulder, keeping her down. Wordless, he rose and walked to the divider. She followed him with her eyes, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

What was I about to do?

A strange calm seeped into her. What would happen if she told him she could speak? If she confessed it had been her that night beneath the vyrnshade blossoms? If she told him she had heard those words, that she was useless, a mistake?

How would he react then?

When Leroy returned, she sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her hair falling like a curtain around her. Her wide eyes lifted to him, searching, uncertain if he would press her again.

He leaned down, his palms braced on the bed, his face inches from hers. "Help me get dressed. It’s getting late," he said softly.

A sigh slipped from her lips before she realized she’d been holding it. She reached for her gown, but he caught her wrist with that familiar, playful smile.

Daylight flooded the room, leaving her exposed. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she hid behind her hands, mortified. He only smirked, as if he had already won something unspoken between them.

Her gaze betrayed her, lingering on him—his body bare and unashamed, the faint scratches she had left etched across his skin, the ripple of muscle with each measured breath, the scars carved deep into his arms and legs, trophies of battles survived... and between them, the proud evidence of his manhood, softened now, yet still heavy and unhidden, the same that had just driven her to the heavens.

All of him was laid bare before her.

So why not? Why not bare herself in kind?

He had seen her scars once, in the dim glow of candlelight. But would the stark truth of daylight change him? Would he flinch, recoil as others had, whispering "curse" behind their hands?

Yet when she lifted her gaze, she found no revulsion, no hesitation, only the gleam of mirth in his eyes, playful, patient, waiting. She had denied him the one thing he asked of her earlier. But this... this, she could give.

Her spine straightened, her stare sharpened, and he caught it instantly. His smile deepened, gaze locking with hers, as if he recognized her answer without words.

She had accepted his challenge.