My fingers tremble as they find the first buckle of his pauldron, the leather worn smooth from years of battle. The metal falls away with a heavy thud, revealing a collarbone dusted with silver scars. I work methodically, each piece of armor a puzzle piece to his body—the vambrace etched with constellations, the gloves still warm from his skin. He stands statue-still, watching me through half-lidded eyes as I kneel to unbuckle his greaves.
"Did he make you do this often?" Traz asks, the question slicing through the quiet. "Petru. Dressing him like a king."
"Only when he wanted to feel like one." The last strap releases, and his breastplate clatters to the floor. My breath catches as I reach for the linen undershirt, the fabric clinging to him like a second skin. "He preferred an audience when he... displayed his treasures."
Traz's jaw tightens as I peel the shirt over his shoulders. "And you? Did you prefer it?"
The truth tastes like ash. "I preferred surviving." His torso is a map of violence—ridges of old wounds, the taut muscle of a man carved by war. My hands hover at the waistband of his trousers, the only barrier left. A nod from him, silent permission. The laces unravel like a sigh.
When he steps free of the fabric, I don't gasp. Don't look away. His arousal is undeniable, a heavy curve that makes my throat dry. Not the crude weapon I expected, but something almost reverent in its power. My fingers brush the inside of his thigh by accident, and he inhales sharply.
"You're staring." His voice is rougher now, a riverbed scraped dry.
"Would you prefer I lie?" My palm skims the air above him, not touching, just tracing the heat. "It's like the rest of you. Made to command."
He catches my wrist, sudden but not cruel. Brings my knuckles to his mouth. The kiss he presses there is softer than I thought him capable of.
His hands guide me toward the bed, fingertips tracing the curve of my spine. The sheets are cool beneath my back, the scent of him—smoke and salt—filling my lungs as he leans over me. His thumb hooks the edge of my panties, hesitating. I nod into the silence, my pulse a wild thing caged between my ribs. The fabric slips away, a whisper of silk against skin, and the air kisses parts of me that have never known light.
He moves slowly, mapping me with his palms—the dip of my waist, the arch of a foot, the flutter of my breath against his collarbone. Every touch is a language I’m learning. His mouth follows, warm and patient, pressing promises into the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder. I tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of something tender unraveling in my chest.
When he settles between my thighs, his gaze holds mine. No words. Just the press of his forehead to mine, the shared breath that bridges the space between our lips. He’s careful. So careful. The ache blooms like a flower unfurling, slow and inevitable, his hands cradling my hips as if I’m something fragile. I clutch the sheets, then his shoulders, anchoring myself to the heat of him.
There’s no sharpness, only the steady press of his cock filling me. A tear slips free—not from pain, but the shock of being known. He kisses it away, his mouth soft as a sigh.
The room dissolves. Time becomes the creak of the bed, the catch of my gasp, the low groan he muffles against my neck. His fingers lace with mine, pinning them to the pillow as he arches, as I arch, as the universe fractures into light.
I come. There's no other possible word for it: the feeling of the universe falling on me in ecstasy. My body pulses around his cock as he continues to drive into me, faster and harder. Just when I think I can't take anymore, everything starts building up again.
"Good girl," he purrs as I reward his efforts with moans of pleasure.
"Please don't stop," I beg, feeling that tension begin to build in me once again. "Please, Trax, I'm gonna-!"
The world goes dark once again, filling me pure bliss as he fills me with his seed.
“Not done with you yet,” Traz murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down my spine. He shifts, his lips trailing down my body with a precision that feels almost practiced, yet somehow achingly personal. My fingers tangle in the sheets, clutching them as he settles between my legs, his breath warm against my sensitive skin.
“Traz—” My voice cracks, a mix of disbelief and anticipation tightening my throat. I’ve never… no one’s ever… The thought fractures as his mouth finds my clit, slow and deliberate, likehe’s savoring every inch of me. My hips jerk involuntarily, a moan tearing loose from my lips before I can swallow it.
His hands grip my thighs, firm but not unkind, holding me steady.
“Relax,” he orders, the word vibrating against me. I try, but it’s impossible—every nerve in my body is alight, every sensation amplified until I’m drowning in it. His tongue flicks, exact and unhurried, and I gasp, arching off the bed.
“Is this… is this normal?” The question spills out, shaky and breathless, as if my brain is trying to make sense of the impossible.
He pauses, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. “Normal’s overrated.” The corner of his mouth quirks, a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he dips back down, his tongue working in a rhythm that leaves me writhing.
My hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the silver strands. “Traz, I can’t—I’m—” The words dissolve into a cry as the pressure builds, relentless and consuming. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his hands tightening on my hips as if anchoring me to the moment.
When it hits, it’s like a detonation—a wave of pure, unbridled ecstasy that leaves me gasping, my body shuddering beneath him. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t give me a chance to recover, his mouth coaxing every last tremor from me until I’m boneless, trembling, spent.
I collapse back onto the bed, my breaths coming in ragged bursts. Traz wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze heavy-lidded but sharp. “Still think you’re just a trophy?” he drawls, his voice rough.
I laugh, the sound breathy and disbelieving. “I don’t know what I am right now.”
“Good.” He leans over me, his shadow falling across my face. “That’s the point.”
After, he doesn’t pull away. His weight anchors me to the earth, his lips brushing my temple again and again, wordless. I trace the scar on his shoulder, the ridge of it a story I’ll ask for later. For now, the quiet is enough. The warmth. The way his breath evens into sleep, our legs tangled like roots.
