Page 24 of Moonlit Desires

"Three centuries," he growls, the words torn from somewhere primal. "Three centuries I've waited, sworn to protect, to serve, to guard." His face hovers inches from hers, breath hot against her lips. "This isn't what I'm meant to do with you."

The confession hangs between them, heavy with implication. Lyra should feel fear at his intensity, at the barely leashed power in his grip, but instead, heat pools low in her abdomen, unfamiliar and insistent. Her body responds before her mind can intervene—she arches against him, pressing herself into the solid wall of his chest.

Something fractures in Kael's expression, control splintering like ice in spring thaw. His hand releases one wrist to cradle her jaw, fingers splaying across her cheek with surprising gentleness. The contrast with his other hand, still gripping her wrist with possessive force, sends shivers racing along her spine.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, voice rough as stone dragged across stone. "Command me as your guardian to remember my place."

But Lyra can't form the words, doesn't want to. Instead, she leans into his palm, eyes never leaving his. The gesture is answer enough.

Kael's discipline crumbles entirely. He presses her harder against the column, his mouth claiming hers with bruising intensity. The kiss isn't gentle—it's hunger and need, centuries of restraint breaking all at once. His lips are firm, demanding, tongue sweeping inside to taste her with warrior's precision. Lyra responds with equal fervor, surprising herself with her eagerness, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

The mark between her shoulder blades ignites, no longer a gentle warmth but a brand of silver fire. It pulses in time withher racing heart, spreading heat through her veins like molten metal. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure and pain so intertwined she can't distinguish between them.

Kael breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth along the line of her jaw, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. His hand slides from her face to tangle in her hair, fingers twisting in the auburn waves to tilt her head back, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat to his exploration. When he bites at the junction of neck and shoulder, Lyra gasps, the sound echoing across the empty courtyard.

"I've imagined this," he confesses against her skin, voice barely recognizable. "Every night for centuries. The taste of you. The sounds you'd make." His free hand finds her thigh, gripping with enough force to leave marks, hitching it up around his waist to bring their bodies flush against each other. "The way you'd yield to me."

The position presses him intimately against her core, the heat of him evident even through layers of clothing. Lyra hooks her ankle behind his knee, keeping him there, wanting more of this new, delicious pressure. Her sigil flares brighter, sending waves of silver warmth through her body that intensify every sensation, every point of contact between them.

Kael's hand slides under her training shift, calloused fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the ridge of her ribs, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His palm spans her abdomen, the touch both possessive and reverent, before moving higher. When he cups her breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak, Lyra moans into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his renewed kiss.

His stubble scrapes deliciously against her collarbone as he tastes his way down her throat, marking a path of sensation that makes her shiver. Lyra's fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to explore the landscape of scars and musclebeneath. His skin burns like a forge, smooth planes interrupted by the raised texture of old battles.

"Kael," she breathes, the name a plea for something she can't articulate.

He responds by pressing more firmly against her, one thigh sliding between hers, creating friction that draws another gasp from her lips. His mouth returns to hers, the kiss deeper, more consuming, as if he would devour her entirely. His hand at her breast kneads with exquisite pressure, the calluses on his palm adding texture that sends sparks through her nerve endings.

Lyra surrenders to his dominance, to the weight of his body caging her against stone, to the masterful way he plays her like an instrument he's studied for centuries. Each touch, each kiss, each roll of his hips against hers draws sounds from her throat she never imagined making—half-moans and broken gasps that seem to fuel his hunger.

The sigil between her shoulder blades burns ever hotter, its silver light visible now even through the fabric of her shift, casting strange shadows across Kael's face when he pulls back to look at her. His eyes reflect the glow, turning them otherworldly, ancient, filled with knowledge that makes her both afraid and desperate for more.

"You're mine to protect," he says, the words rasping from his throat as his fingers trace the outline of her breast, the curve of her ribs, the hollow of her hip. "Mine to serve." His hand dips lower, following the line of her thigh where it wraps around his waist. "Mine to worship."

The last word breaks something open inside Lyra—a recognition that this isn't just desire, but devotion. Not just passion, but reverence. Kael doesn't touch her like a man touching a woman, but like a devotee at the altar of something sacred and powerful. The realization makes her knees weak,makes her cling to his shoulders as the only solid thing in a world suddenly spinning too fast.

His mouth finds the sensitive spot below her ear, teeth grazing, then biting down with enough force to mark. The pain-pleasure of it draws a cry from her lips, her body arching instinctively into his. His answering groan vibrates against her skin, his hands tightening their grip as if he might fly apart without her to anchor him.

"I never knew," she whispers against his temple, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. "I never knew it could be like this."

Kael lifts his head, eyes burning into hers with an intensity that steals her breath. "This is only the beginning," he promises, voice a rumble she feels in her bones. "If you let me, I'll show you pleasures beyond mortal imagining. I'll worship every inch of your skin until you forget there was ever a world before this one."

The words send a tremor through her body, a promise that makes her ache with anticipation. His hand slides up her thigh, fingers tracing patterns that make her shiver and press closer, seeking more. The sigil responds to her desire, its silver light brightening until it illuminates the entire alcove, turning Kael's skin to sculpted marble and setting fire to the blue of his eyes.

In this moment, suspended between stone and sky, duty and desire, Lyra knows only one truth: she wants him to continue. Wants his dominance, his possession, his devotion. Wants it with an intensity that should frighten her but instead feels like coming home.

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Between one heartbeat and the next, everything changes. Kael's body, moments ago fluid with desire, suddenly turns to stone against her. His hands, which had been mapping the landscape of her skin with reverent precision, freeze in place.Something flickers across his face—a shadow, a realization—and his eyes, dark with passion seconds before, now widen with dawning horror.

The transformation is so abrupt that Lyra doesn't immediately register its meaning. Her body still hums with unfulfilled desire, skin sensitive where his stubble has left its mark, lips swollen from his kisses. She reaches for him, confused by the sudden stillness, only to feel him jerk away as if burned by her touch.

"Kael?" she whispers, voice unsteady.

He steps back, then back again, putting physical distance between them with each movement. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, but the rhythm now speaks of panic rather than passion. He runs a trembling hand through his disheveled hair, fingers catching in the dark strands that her own hands had tangled moments before.

"Forgive me," he says, the words rough as if dragged across broken glass. His gaze fixes on a point beyond her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes. "I am your guardian, not—" The sentence hangs incomplete, but its meaning is clear in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

Lyra remains against the column, her legs still unsteady, the ghost of his touch lingering on her skin. The sigil between her shoulder blades pulses with diminishing intensity, its silver light fading as the distance between them grows. The sudden absence of his heat leaves her cold, despite the morning sun now fully illuminating the courtyard.

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