26

Casimir

There's a goddess in my bed.

A living, breathing goddess with her dark curls falling around her shoulders and a mischievous glint in her soft brown eyes as she goes to work stripping me of my shirt.

She's also a cruel goddess, apparently.

Holding myself back from touching Ophelia the way I'd like is nearly impossible, but if she wants to play, I'll let her play.

I'm hard as a godsdamned stone under my trousers, something she's certainly more than aware of as her fingers brush over my chest, my stomach, lower, before she glances up at me through dark lashes. She pulls the two sides of my shirt apart and brushes a kiss to the center of my chest.

It turns the rest of me to stone, freezes the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart, only to have it all come back to warm, vibrant life a moment later when she grins at me.

"Take those off," she says, gesturing to my shirt and loosened tie.

I slide them over my shoulders and toss both to the floor. "Any other orders, goddess?"

She laughs, like the endearment isn't meant to be taken literally. "No. Not right at the moment."

I rest my hands back on Ophelia's waist, reveling in the warmth of her as she takes her time exploring all the skin she's laid bare. Fingertips trailing over my shoulders, my biceps, the back of my neck as she leans in to nip at my bottom lip, I bite back a groan at the feel of her pressed against me. The soft planes of her stomach and the swell of her breasts, nipples tightened with excitement and the slight chill of the room.

She hums her pleasure as her lips graze my throat, and this time there's no stopping the groan that slips out of me at the press of her teeth against my skin.

Sweet, wicked creature.

Beautiful, impossible, wondrous woman.

Ophelia reaches down between our bodies, mouth traveling up to capture mine, and any coherent thoughts simply cease to exist as she cups and squeezes me over my pants.

I feel the curve of her smile against my lips and taste the sensual amusement in her chuckle.

"Damn, Cas. You've been holding out on me."

Gods, but my ego doesn't need any stoking, not now. Not when I've never been as viscerally satisfied with myself as I am to have somehow earned this woman's touch, her pleasure, her trust.

Her fingers catch on my belt buckle with a faint metallic clink as she goes to work unfastening my trousers, and I take a deep, shuddering breath to rein myself in.

It creates just enough space in the haze of arousal clouding my mind for a sliver of disquiet to work its way back in. A reminder of everything that happened in Philippe's office, a sharp stab of fear and an echo of red-tinted fury at seeing him with Ophelia.

Agonizing, how quickly that darkness flooded back in.

I thought myself removed from it, able to think past it, reason through it.

But the moment I saw Philippe with his hands on her, his fangs exposed and hovering just above her throat, there was no question.

I would have killed him.

Quickly, efficiently, without hesitation or remorse or any kind of pleasure, but I would have killed him all the same.

For her.

And now that she's here, full of wicked teasing and flush with pleasure, wearing my mark on her most intimate place, that ageless instinct settles back into the safe, secure abyss I've kept it all these centuries. Calmed and sheathed, though I know it would be no great reach to wield it again if it meant protecting her.

The thought should unsettle me more.

It should give me pause and make me withdraw from her, put some space between us so I can process and parse this out, try to decipher what it all means, but I don't.

With her blood coursing through me, with warm satisfaction settling into every inch of my withered soul, I won't let it ruin this.

No force in heaven or earth could make me turn away from her now.

"Is that so?" I ask, reaching for the thread of fractured conversation between us.

"Yeah," she says, nipping at my throat again. "That is so."

Fuck, the things it does to me to feel those blunt little teeth of hers. It sends my mind careening down paths that end in blood and bonds and other sacraments I can't let myself dwell on now.

Ophelia reaches into the pants she's loosened, curls her fingers around the length of my cock, and some of my earlier resolve to cede control slips. I bury my hands in her hair and pull her head back so she has to look at me.

I hold her gaze just like that while she strokes me, letting her see just what she does to me. Every groan and gasp, every bit of pleasure she wrings from me, it's all hers to claim.

And she's not unaffected, either. It only takes a few more hard strokes, a few thrusts of my hips into her hands in a blatant mimic of what I'd like to do to her body for Ophelia's pulse to race and her breathing to grow fast and shallow. The decadent scent of her arousal perfumes the air between us, pushing me right to the edge of my control.

But Ophelia breaks first.

Releasing my cock, she shoves my pants roughly down around my thighs.

"Those can go, too," she gasps.

I obey without hesitation, removing the rest of my clothing and leaving it in a heap by the bedside. By the time I'm done, Ophelia's sprawled herself at the head of the bed, amongst the mounds of pillows and the rumpled duvet, reclining like a goddess awaiting worship.

And who would I be, if not her most devoted supplicant?

Still, as much as I might ache to bury myself in her, my sweet Ophelia's divinity was meant to be savored.

I take my time exploring every inch of her. The delicate dip of her ankle, a little spot on the inside of one knee that makes her gasp and squirm when I run my fang over it. The softness of her inner thigh and the mark I left on the sensitive skin just above her cunt. When I pause there to run my tongue over the healing wounds, she cries out and buries her hands in my hair, tugging hard and sending an electric thrill of sensation over my scalp.

I could easily lose myself in feasting on her again, but Ophelia's nearly as impatient as I am for something else. Something hot and burning and insistent between us that demands fulfillment as she moves her hands to my shoulders and tries to pull me over her.

"Please," she moans. "Enough, Cas. Please."

There will be time later to wring more of those sounds from her—more of those gasps and moans and pretty pleas—but my fortitude is running as thin as hers. I settle myself between her thighs, and Ophelia reaches down between our bodies, grasping the length of me and lining up with her entrance.

Ophelia's cunt is hot and wet. Her hips jerk up to meet me, and a needy little whimper slips out when I don't immediately give into her silent demand.

But there's one more thing I need. One last affirmation that all of this isn't some dream or some blood-addled fantasy.

"Tell me."

Ophelia bucks and strains against me where I have my cock poised right at her entrance. I slide a bare inch into her and it makes her even more wild, her breath coming in ragged pants and her body straining to meet mine.

"Tell me you want this," I say, barely recognizing the low, rough rasp of my voice. "Please, Ophelia. Tell me—"

"I want this. I want you , Cas. I want—"

I drive into her in one sure stroke. Ophelia arches to meet me, a hoarse cry of pleasure wrenched from her throat.

Gods, the feel of her.

The mind-numbing heat and softness of her, the slick warmth and the tight grip of her body as she cants her hips, winds her arms up around my neck, and draws me closer.

"Fuck, Cas," she breathes. "I—I—"

"I know," I murmur against her lips.

And then we're moving, finding a rhythm that suits us both, a push and pull of muscle and skin and sweat, hearts and blood and breath. I grasp one of her legs beneath the knee and hitch it over my hip, then the other. It changes the angle, shifts her beneath me, lets me slide deeper into her, and we both groan.

Ophelia's nails score my back, and her urgent panting moans echo in my ears like the sweetest music, tugging me closer to euphoria with each thrust.

But I won't find it without her.

I drop a hand and find her clit, teasing her back toward her pleasure in firm, heavy strokes. It has her crying out again, squeezing me between her thighs with a strength that might leave bruises, were I capable of such a thing.

The walls of her cunt tighten around me, her cries grow more urgent, and I find one of her hands where it's grasped around the back of my neck.

Twining our fingers together, I press them into the pillow beside her head. I angle my hips to hit the spot I've already learned makes her come apart at the seams, dragging the head of my cock over it once, twice, again, and she shatters.

I follow just a couple of heartbeats later.

Buried to the hilt inside her, pleasure grips the bottom of my spine like a fist as I spill into her. I come hard enough for the edges of my vision to go white, and the broken, ragged sounds of both our moans echo in my ears as I drop my forehead to her collarbone, clasp her hand in mine, and whisper into her skin.

The words are desperate and half-formed, little bits of worship and praise and filth, and they're accompanied by a new sensation, something gentle and tender to send jolts of soft starlight across my scalp, down my spine, to the center of my aching chest.

Ophelia's fingers are feather-light as they stroke through my hair. Her lips follow, pressing breathless kisses to the top of my head, my temple, my forehead when I finally lift myself away from her flushed, damp skin. I meet her gaze, and all that sensation turns into something else, something I can say with certainty I've never felt in all my centuries of this existence.

A slow, effervescent, sparkling sort of warmth spreads through all the places our skin touches until I'm enveloped completely.

Safe, satisfied, content… at peace.

Here, now, with my sweet Ophelia, held by her and holding her in return, I am at peace.

For a few long moments I simply allow myself to savor it, to revel in it, at least until she shifts slightly beneath me. It's a reminder that I probably shouldn't spend the entire night sprawled out atop her, buried in the tight warmth of her cunt.

Even as much as I might like to.

Sanity comes back to me in slow, hazy increments, but it's not until I shift to slide out of her that I remember.

"I'm sorry," I rasp. "I didn't think—I didn't mean to—"

She catches the meaning of my awkward apology as I settle on the bed beside her. When I glance over, her cheeks are colored a darker shade of pink than they were a moment ago.

"It's fine," she says quickly. "I mean, yeah, we probably should have talked about it, but I had things… taken care of. A few years ago, actually. I decided the whole becoming a mother thing wasn't ever going to be for me, so I made it permanent."

A wave of relief washes over me, both for the immediate concern, and for the glimmer of something I'm not going to examine right now. A small kernel of some distant future we might share.

"Alright," I tell her, reaching over to pull her into me. "And, for the record, I feel the same about bringing a child into the world."

Ophelia relaxes into me, tucking her head under my chin and letting out a long, satisfied sigh. It brings back that warm blanket of peace. All-encompassing and complete, it tugs at the corners of my mind, inviting what I'm certain will be a wonderful night's sleep.

But, like I should have already known, my goddess isn't a creature of rest or indulgence, and she's not about to let me off the hook for my earlier behavior, no matter how good the sex might have been.

Ophelia braces a forearm on my chest and rests her chin atop it, glancing up at me with a look that's equal parts trepidation and resolve and the lingering haze of pleasure that hasn't quite left her eyes.

"So, can we finally talk about just what the fuck happened back in Philippe's office?"