Page 38

Still, he waits.

“Caspian,” I whisper, into the shell of his ear. “You’re allowed to want this.”

His hands slide—hesitantly—up to my waist. Then my ribs. Then, finally, his arms wrap around my back, pulling me closer, tighter, until there’s no space between us. His hips thrust up once, shallow, uncoordinated.

I answer with a grind of my own. We meet. Once. Twice. The third time, we find it.

Something clicks.

His hand fists in my hair, the other skimming down to the curve of my ass, guiding me now—his rhythm syncing with mine. His hips roll, not desperate, not frenzied, but withpurpose. Heat coils low in my belly. The bond pulses in my spine.

He kisses me again—deeper this time. No more hesitation. His tongue sweeps mine with hunger, with memory. Like he’s remembering how this used to feel.

I break the kiss with a gasp, rock harder against him. He groans, head tipping back. His hands are on my hips now, grounding us both, and he's moving—meeting me thrust for thrust, slow and deliberate, dragging himself against every nerve ending inside me like he’s carving a new map.

I brace my palms on his chest, arching my back, riding him harder. His eyes are locked on me now—dark, dilated, stunned—and for once, not haunted.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Luna…”

It’s the way he says my name.

Not broken. Not bitter.

Like it’s the first word he’s ever said that meant something.

The pleasure builds slowly. No magic pushing it along. No supernatural spark. Just muscle and motion and breath. His fingers slip between my legs, tentative at first, then firmer when I moan. He finds that spot, rubs slow circles, and I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, hips stuttering.

He doesn’t. He holds me there, works me open, and when I come, it hits like fire and grit and relief. My whole body trembles. The bond snaps—a hot, final seal—and I collapse against him, gasping into his neck.

He follows not long after, with a grunt and a full-body shudder, buried deep inside me, his arms wrapped so tight around my back it almost hurts.

But he’s there.

Really there.

When I finally lift my head, we’re both breathing hard, sweaty, wrecked. He blinks up at me, eyes unfocused, chest still heaving.

Then he says, voice raw and hoarse:

“…That was not what I thought that would be.”

And there it is—the awkwardness, sliding in just behind the intimacy. I snort out a laugh before I can stop it and fall sideways onto the mattress, legs still shaking.

“No,” I say. “It was better.”

He doesn’t shift away, doesn’t reach for me—but he doesn't relax, either. He just lies there, one arm draped over his face like a flimsy barrier, as if the crook of his elbow could protect him from being seen. And for a heartbeat, I think maybe he’s trying to catch himself, to come back down.

But then his spine arches, almost imperceptibly. A quiet tremor runs through him. And I feel it—the breath that catches. The way it lingers. Suspended. Fragile. There’s a fracture under the surface that spreads, delicate and inevitable.

The sound that escapes him is so soft I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t lying against his chest. But I feel it vibrate through me—a sharp, jagged exhale, like something breaking loose from a place too long buried.

He’s crying.

Not with violence. Not with fury. It’s quieter than that. More devastating. His body curls in on itself like it’s trying to contain the collapse, like he’s ashamed of how much it hurts.

I move toward him slowly, deliberately, sliding across the sheets until I’m pressed against his side. I don’t speak. I don’t ask. I wrap one arm around his waist, the other across his chest, and press my forehead to the curve of his shoulder. His skin is still warm, still damp, and beneath it, his heart is racing. Not from sex. From this.