Atrius led me to his bedchamber and kissed me, long and hard, against the door. I wasn’t expecting the kiss, or at least not the intensity of it, his tongue slipping between my lips, his teeth nipping at one, then the other. The scent of steel and snow and the solid wall of his presence surrounded me, and the surprised sound that escaped my throat quickly fell into a moan.
His hands gripped my hips as he deepened the kiss, tipped my head back, pinning me against the wall. I could feel the stiff length of his desire pressing against me, and Weaver, my own desire matched it, coiling low in my stomach.
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.