Page 73 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Don't stop," I whisper, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw with wandering fingers. "Please."

Something flashes in his eyes —relief, need, and darker satisfaction that makes my pulse quicken.His lips curve into the rarest of expressions: a genuine smile that transforms his features from merely handsome to breathtaking.

"As you wish," he murmurs, the formal phrasing somehow perfect for this moment of significance beyond mere physical connection.

When his mouth claims mine again, all pretense of gentleness has vanished. This kiss carries intention clear as crystal, promise evident in every purposeful movement of his lips against mine.

His tongue plunges into my mouth with confident possession, tasting and taking with thoroughness that leaves no corner unexplored.

I meet him with equal fervor, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer as my body arches beneath his. The mark at my neck burns now, no longer merely warm but actively radiating sensation that spreads through my system like wildfire.

Each pulse sends fresh waves of pleasure cascading through nerve endings suddenly hypersensitive to every touch, every pressure, every subtle shift of his body against mine.

His hand at my waist slides beneath the hem of my borrowed shirt, fingers splaying across bare skin with possessive appreciation.

The contact sends electricity racing through my system, each point where skin meets skin becoming its own center of sensation. Yet even as desire builds to nearly unbearable levels, I sense his continued restraint — the careful way he holds something back, ensuring I'm not overwhelmed by the full force of whatever burns beneath his controlled exterior.

The kiss deepens further, evolving beyond technique into pure expression of need and desire too long denied. His teeth graze my bottom lip, the slight pressure sending shivers racing down my spine to pool as liquid heat in my core.

When he soothes the same spot with his tongue, the contrasting sensations draw a moan from deep in my throat.

The sound seems to shatter something in him. His control —that carefully maintained Duskwalker composure— finally breaks, replaced by something wilder, more primal.

Shadows swirl around us, responding to emotions he typically keeps rigidly contained. They don't feel threatening but protective, cocooning us in darkness that somehow enhances rather than diminishes the intensity of sensation.

His kisses turn hungrier, more demanding, each one taking me deeper into territories I've never explored. His body presses more firmly against mine, allowing me to feel the evidence of his desire with crystal clarity.

The knowledge that I affect him so strongly, that I've managed to crack the perfect control of this Duskwalker prince, sends a different kind of satisfaction through me.

My hands explore the planes of his back, tracing muscle that shifts beneath my touch with clear purpose. Through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel unnatural heat radiating from his typically cool skin — further evidence of control abandoned in favor of genuine response.

When his mouth finally leaves mine, I nearly protest until I feel those same lips tracing a path along my jaw, then down the sensitive column of my neck.

He pauses at my pulse point, breath hot against skin that feels hypersensitive in the aftermath of such thoroughness.

"Mine,"he whispers against my throat, the single word carrying weight and meaning beyond its simplicity.

Then his lips close over the bond mark at my neck, and rational thought dissolves into pure sensation.

Shadows Surrendered

~CASSIUS~

"Mine,"I whisper against her throat, the word carrying centuries of longing I've never allowed myself to voice.

When my lips touch the bond mark at her neck, the connection between us flares with incandescent intensity, sending shock waves of sensation through my system.

Her reaction is immediate and devastating — a gasping moan that arches her body into mine, her hands clutching at my shoulders as if seeking anchor in a storm of feeling.

The sound of her pleasure resonates through me, awakening something primal that Duskwalkers typically keep carefully contained.

My shadows respond instinctively, tendrils extending from my form to surround us in protective darkness that hums with vibrational delight. They move with purpose beyond my conscious direction, caressing her skin through the borrowed shirt with almost reverent appreciation.

"Cassius," she whispers, my name on her lips carrying notes of surrender that make my control fray further at the edges.

My shadows grow bolder, slipping beneath fabric to trace patterns against her bare skin. The tendrils seem to sing with satisfaction at each shiver they draw from her, each breathy sound of appreciation.

They move with increasing purpose, gradually gathering the material of her shirt, lifting it with deliberate slowness to reveal her form inch by exquisite inch.

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