I close my eyes and breathe him in, barely a movement, and he understands. His hands, strong and sure, begin to undress me, fingers brushing against my skin with a gentleness that contrasts the urgency in his eyes. Each touch is like a spark, reigniting something deep within, despite the marks of his whip that crisscross my back.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, kissing my bruises with a tenderness that breaks my heart. “Let me help you heal.”
He lays me down, not on the cold floor but on the softness of his cloak, a makeshift bed that says more about his care than words could. His body, hard and warm, covers mine, his erection pressing against my thigh, sending a rush of warmth up my leg.
He enters me with a deliberate slowness, each inch a seduction, his gaze intense, watching pleasure flicker across my face. His thrust, deep and commanding, ignites a fire within, stretching me, filling me, until every thrust is a silent scream at the edge of ecstasy and pain.
I gasp, my back arching slightly, the movement pulling at the fresh scabs, yet the pleasure of his fullness inside me blurs the lines. "Kael," I moan, my voice heavy with longing.
He moves with a rhythm that's both slow and intense, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in, each stroke designed to draw out every sensation. His hands are everywhere, one hand cupping my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, the other holding my hip, guiding my movements to meet his.
"Look at me," he murmurs, his voice a husky command, and when our eyes meet, there's this connection, this raw, unfiltered emotion passing between us.
“No one will ever replace you in my heart, do you understand?” Tears sting my eyes as his intense gaze strips away my defenses, and I nod silently, overcome with desire — the desire to believe that he’s still mine, the desire to feel him burst inside me.