Page 83 of Royal Deception
His fingers trail along the curve of my bare skin before moving to the clasp of my bra, undoing it with practiced ease. My breath catches as the straps slip down my arms, and his hands follow, tracing over my skin as if committing every inch of me to memory.
“Clary…” My name is a whisper, full of reverence, like a prayer. His hands don’t stray—not yet. Instead, he studies me, his expression raw, as if he’s afraid to blink and miss a second of this.
A shaky exhale escapes me as he kneels, his hands finding the waistband of my jeans. His lips brush against my stomach as he undoes the button, his breath warm against my skin. The way he looks up at me, heat darkening his eyes, makes my knees weak.
He slides my jeans down my legs, his fingertips gliding over my thighs, slow and deliberate. When he presses a kiss just above my knee, a tremor runs through me, and I reach out, threading my fingers through his hair.
Rory stands again, watching me as he pulls his shirt over his head, then reaches for his belt. There’s something almost ceremonial about it—the way he peels away the layers, revealinghimself to me inch by inch. When he’s finally bare, I swear my heart stutters.
He steps closer, his hands cradling my face, and when his lips meet mine, the kiss is soft, almost achingly tender. He kisses me like he’s trying to tell me something without words, like he’s laying bare something deeper than just desire.
When he guides me down to the bed of moss beneath us, his weight settling over me, every movement is slow—lingering touches, whispered breaths, the unspoken promise that this is more than just a moment stolen in the dark.
And when he finally pushes inside me, the world falls away entirely.
There is no rush, no urgency—only this, only us, the way he moves, the way he holds me, the way our bodies fit together like we were made for this. His forehead presses to mine, his breath mingling with my own, and the way he looks at me, like I’m something precious, something irreplaceable, steals the air from my lungs.
I cling to him, my nails digging into his back, my legs wrapping around him as the slow, steady rhythm pulls me deeper. Every thrust, every whispered sigh, feels like a confession neither of us is ready to say aloud.
But I feel it in the way he touches me. I feel it in the way he holds me afterward, pressing soft kisses to my temple as our breaths slow, his arms wrapping around me like he never wants to let go.
As the last waves of pleasure fade, Rory doesn’t pull away. He stays close, his forehead pressed against mine, our breaths still uneven, tangled together in the quiet night air. His hands glide over my back in slow, soothing strokes, grounding me, keeping me right here with him.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment. There’s no need for words. The way he holds me says enough.
Eventually, he shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling me with him until I’m draped over his chest. The soft breeze whispers through the trees, cool against our overheated skin, but I don’t feel the chill. Not with him wrapped around me like this, his arms strong and steady, his heartbeat a slow, steady rhythm beneath my ear.
I trace lazy circles against his skin, savoring the warmth of him, the way his fingers comb through my hair in slow, absent strokes. It’s gentle. Easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“You’re quiet,” Rory murmurs, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “That’s not like you.”
I smile against his chest. “I’m just happy.”
His chest rises and falls beneath me, and when I glance up, his lips are curled in something dangerously close to a smile. Not his usual cocky smirk, but something real. Something warm.
“Well,” he muses, trailing his fingers along my spine, “if I’d known all it took to get you to shut up was making love to you in the middle of the forest, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”
I huff out a laugh, swatting his side. “You’re an ass.”
His arms tighten around me, his lips pressing to my hair. “Yeah,” he agrees, amusement threading through his voice. Then, softer, almost hesitant, “But you want me anyway.”
I smile and kiss his temple, snuggling closer as we let ourselves drift off for a moment, content to just be together for once.
35
RORY
The ride back is quiet, but it’s a good kind of quiet. The kind that settles deep, like something unspoken hanging between us.
When we reach the stable, it’s empty except for the soft sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls. I swing off first, then turn to help Clary down, gripping her waist to steady her. I should let go as soon as her feet hit the ground, but my hands linger, my fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of her sweater. She looks up at me, lips parting like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.
I swallow hard and force myself to step back, shoving my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her again.
The drive to Miranda’s is short, but I still walk her to the door. It’s instinct, something ingrained in me too deep to ignore. The cold night air curls around us, but I barely feel it. Not when she’s standing so close, her hair slightly messy, her lips still kiss-swollen from earlier.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn’t. Instead, she rises onto her toes, meeting me halfway,and then our lips press together, slow and unhurried. There’s no urgency, no desperation—just the quiet, lingering heat of something that’s been building for far too long.
By the time I pull back, we’re both breathing a little heavier. I rest my forehead against hers for just a second before I finally force myself to step away.
