When Auren finally drew back, he didn’t go far.
He studied me: my face, my breath, the tremble I couldn’t hide in my fingers.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice low and uneven at the edges.
I didn’t know what to say. My instinct urged me to apologize for that. My lips were still parted. My throat too tight with something I couldn’t name.
So I didn’t speak.
I just stood there, stunned and aching, my skin flushed and trembling from a single kiss.
Auren’s gaze didn’t leave mine. His breath ghosted against my cheek, warm and unhurried, and then he touched me again—this time not with his lips, but with the flat of his palm against my chest.
He held it there, just over my heart, as though listening to its rhythm.
“I need you to lie down,” he said. Not a command. A request. But his voice was low enough to carry weight. As if the very walls had leaned in to listen.
I nodded.
His hand slid away slowly, leaving my skin bereft of its heat, and he turned. I followed, though my limbs felt boneless, like water poured into a vessel too large.
The altar loomed behind him—broad, low, padded in red silk with a depth that spoke not of comfort, but of intention. It was beautiful. Ornate. Intimidating. But not cruel.
Auren reached it first. He rested one hand on the edge and turned slightly, looking at me not with hunger, but something else—patience, maybe. Or reverence.
My throat tightened, but I stepped forward.
He helped me up, his hands under my arms, then at my back, guiding me until I was seated at the edge.The silk was cool beneath me. Smooth as river-washed stone. I leaned back slowly, the pressure of his hands never leaving, until I was flat, breath shallow, limbs trembling with something I couldn’t name.
The ceiling disappeared above me. The golden sconces blurred. All I could feel was the weight of my own heartbeat and the soft hush of Auren moving around the altar.
He didn’t climb over me. Not yet.
He started at my feet.
His fingers traced the top of my arch, sliding up the bone of my ankle. Slowly. Thoughtfully. As if he was memorizing the shape of me. I hadn’t known it could feel like this—his palm on my shin, his fingertips at my knee, the press of his hands gliding up my thighs, not groping, not taking. Just… learning. Claiming. Worshiping.
When he reached my hips, he paused.
The silence between us thickened. It wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory, like the moment between lightning and thunder. My eyes fluttered closed. I felt his breath first. Then his lips.
Soft. Just beneath my navel.
He kissed me there.
Then again, higher, following the centerline of my torso. My breath caught as he reached my chest. He didn’t avoid it. His mouth found the ridge of my ribs, the slope of my sternum, and the hollow between.
Every press of his lips sent sparks beneath my skin.
When I opened my eyes, he was above me.
One hand beside my head, the other braced nearmy waist. He hovered there for a moment, studying me with an expression I didn’t know how to name. His face was flushed, his eyes darker now, not just with want but with something heavier.
“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured. “I promise.”
I believed him.
He kissed me again, mouth to mine. Slower this time. Searching. His tongue teased at the seam of my lips and I let him in by instinct, breath stuttering. Our bodies hadn’t fully touched yet, but I could feel the weight of him everywhere—his presence, his want, the sheer heat of his skin brushing mine.
