Page 48 of Iron Roses

My fingers circle her clit faster, harder, and she quivers above me, legs shaking, her moan high and trembling.

I’m close. My cock throbs inside her, swollen and tight, the base slick with her arousal. My balls pull up, my stomach clenches, and I grab her hips with both hands, holding her still as I thrust up into her, hard.

She crashes down on me, grinding her clit against my pelvis, and I lose it.

I come—hard, pulsing deep inside her, groaning into the heat between us. My body locks, back arching off the bed, cock twitching inside her as I fill her with every wave of release.

She rides it out. Letting me feel every aftershock.

Then—her body changes again.

The glow fades from her skin. Her hair shortens, curls softly back to chestnut. Her eyes shift—still green, but warmer, human.

She’s gone and Elaria has returned.

She exhales, chest heaving, strands of damp hair clinging to her face. Her skin is slick with sweat, flushed from throat to thighs. She blinks down at me, still straddling my hips, still wrapped around me, her breathing jagged.

She cups my face, thumb brushing just under my eye.

Her mouth moves.

But I hear it—inside me, without sound.

Do you believe me now?

Panting and covered in sweat. I realize, she touched the altar.

Chapter Ten – Elaria

The brush slips from my hand.

It clatters against the hardwood floor, loud in the stillness, but I don’t move to retrieve it. I just sit there, perched on the narrow stool before the antique vanity, Cassian’s shirt draped around me like a second skin. The linen is too large, swallowing my frame, sleeves rolled past my elbows, hem brushing the tops of my thighs. It smells like him—cedar, smoke, something older and darker beneath.

I close my eyes. Inhale.

The scent makes my chest ache.

My fingers, trembling, return to my hair. I drag the brush through again, mechanical. The reflection staring back at me looks soft. Unguarded. Hair tumbling in waves around my face, eyes red-rimmed but bright. There’s a flush to my skin I can’t name, a bite-mark blooming purple at the base of my throat. My pulse ticks against it, wild and traitorous.

What did I do?

My body still remembers. The way his hands moved—hungry, reverent, ruined. The sounds I made, the way I clung to him, the way he—

I grip the edge of the vanity, knuckles going white.

I should feel ashamed.

I should feel violated or cold or at least cautious.

But all I feel is the thud of my heart and the echo of his breath against my skin.

God, I want him again.

What’s wrong with me?

The door creaks open. My spine stiffens.

He steps in, shirtless.

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