Page 246 of Emylia

And then his mouth found mine again.

No restraint.

No hesitation.

Just heat. Hunger. Devotion disguised as destruction. A storm of need and knowing.

His lips moved against mine with reckless need—demanding, consuming, breaking open everything I’d buried. He kissed me like he finally believed I was his to love.

My hands found his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, pulling him closer, deeper. His body pressed down, and I met him with equal desperation. I didn’t want careful. I wanted him—unapologetic and unfiltered.

His mouth trailed lower—my jaw, my throat, the delicate places that begged to be touched by him. Each kiss was a strike against my sanity.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice torn, breath shaking against my skin. “If you don’t—I won’t.”

I met his eyes, wide and unguarded. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Something broke in him. The sound he made—part growl, part confession—vibrated through me.

He kissed me again, slower now. Deeper. Like he needed to memorize me. Like he was carving this moment into memory.

His hands moved with reverent hunger—gliding down my ribs, over my hips, skimming the soaked edges of fabric clinging to my thighs. Every touch left a trail of lightning. I arched beneath him, hips lifting, begging silently for more.

“Gods, Em,” he groaned. “You undo me.”

“Then come undone,” I breathed.

And he did.

He kissed the hollow of my throat, the swell of my chest, lower—his mouth making promises in the language of touch. My thoughts scattered like ash on wind. Every brush of his lips branded me. Every exhale was a firestorm in my blood.

“You’re mine,” he growled, low and ragged. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped, voice trembling.

He groaned again, the sound primal, and then his fingers slid between my thighs.

And I broke.

Right there beneath him, I shattered—wild, aching, real. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t quiet. It tore through me like lightning through water, like wildfire kissing bone. My body arched, my cry fractured in the air—his name ripped from my throat like a battle cry and a benediction. Like I was begging the Gods and cursing them at the same time.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look away. He held me as I unraveled—watched me burn and tremble and fall apart like I was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen.

When he finally moved over me again, we were both shaking.

Breathless.

Untamed.

Licked in fire.

His forehead pressed to mine. His lips brushed against my mouth, and then—he entered me.

Not gently.

Not cautiously.

But like he needed me to finally feel worthy.

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