Chapter 18 -Caylix-
\-Caylix-
I settle her beneath the blankets slowly, making sure every inch of her is covered before I let myself pull away. Her breathing has softened already, the sharp edges of her pain fading as exhaustion drags her under. Even now, half asleep, she shifts toward me instinctively.
“Just rest, Avi,” I whisper quietly.
My thumb brushes her cheek before I can stop it. Then I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and for one reckless second, I let myself pretend this is tenderness instead of weakness.
Because the truth is, I do not want to leave this room.
The hex is worse now that I know exactly how she sounds falling apart in my arms. Every instinct in me is turning feral with it, demanding I go back to that bed, drag her against me, and lose the last of my control inside her warmth.
So I leave before the hex turns me into something dangerous. The bathing chamber is cold and silent, but it changes nothing. Through the tether, I still feel her curled beneath the blankets, sleepy, safe, reaching for me even unconsciously.
I brace both hands against the stone basin, gripping it hard enough that the edges bite into my palms while I fight for control of my breathing. The hex burns through me like poison in my veins. I try to focus on anything except her. The cold beneath my hands, the silence, the distance between this room and the bed I left her in. It doesn’t help, she is consuming my every thought. The way she melted against my chest the moment the hex eased, the soft, broken sound of relief she made when I held her through it, the way her fingers searched for me instinctively, trusting me with every vulnerable piece of herself while the hex tried to consume us both.
A curse leaves me under my breath as I reach for the laces of my trousers with unsteady hands. Relief hits the moment I free myself, but it barely touches the agony clawing through me. My grip tightens instinctively, and I try to make my hand just a tool, a means to an end, pumping with a rough, efficient rhythm.
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache. I force myself to think of nothing but the friction and start chasing the relief, my hand moving faster, rougher, gripping myself with a desperate urgency.
I try to hold on to a shred of decency, but the tether drags me under, drowning me in the memory of her body against mine. The moment I let the memory in, the hex stops fighting me and starts fueling me.
I see her behind my closed lids, her back arching against my chest, the rise and fall of her breasts, the hard, pebbled peaks of her nipples begging for attention I cannot give.
It drives a groan from low in my throat, rough and broken. My hips jerk helplessly against my fist, chasing relief that never fully comes. My wrist burns from the force of it, my breathing ragged as I brace my forehead harder against the cold stone.
But it isn’t enough. Nothing is enough.
A curse rips from me as I shove back from the wall, chest heaving with frustration. I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once across the bathing chamber before stopping again, every thought turning vicious beneath the hex.
How am I supposed to survive this?
How am I supposed to stand beside her tomorrow and pretend I can still only be her guard after tonight?
The thought of another man touching her nearly turns my vision black. Something inside me finally snaps. My eyes close as I give in to the thought I’ve been fighting since the moment I carried her to that bed. I abandon myself to it. I let the walls of discipline I’ve built over years crumble into dust.
Avianna beneath me willingly.
I imagine the full, heavy weight of her breast in my hand, my mouth closing over the tight, straining peak of her nipple, hearing her breath hitch and break into a whimper as I suck hard, dragging my tongue over the sensitive flesh until she’s arching off the bed, begging me for more.
The hex answers the fantasy with a violent surge of heat. My hand moves faster, but it’s not enough. I need more.
I imagine shifting lower, trailing my lips down the ridges of her ribs, over the soft plane of her stomach, until I am settled between her thighs.
I imagine what she would taste like.
I groan aloud, the sound ragged and broken in the silence. I picture leaning in to drag the flat of my tongue through her wetness. I imagine the noise she would make, that sharp, shocked gasp melting into a low, broken moan as I feast on her. I would devour her. I would lick and suck at that tight little bundle of nerves until she was writhing, until her hands were fisted in my hair, pulling me closer, begging me to never stop.
My knees buckle as the fantasy takes over, I slide down the wall until I’m kneeling on the stone floor, one hand bracing against the wall while the other works my cock in a desperate, punishing rhythm.
My thighs are trembling, the stone floor unforgiving against my knees, but I can’t stop. The fantasy is overwhelming, and I’m racing toward the edge. And then, the fantasy splinters into a memory.
The moment she shattered.
I remember the arch of her body and the broken sound of my name falling from her lips. I remember the way her fingers moved as they slid against my hand, slippery and hot with her own release, as she threaded them through mine. Palm to palm. Knuckle to knuckle.
It wasn’t a grip born of pain or desperation. It was an anchor.
She held onto me. While she was still gasping, while she was still messy and ruined and completely vulnerable, she locked her fingers with mine and squeezed.
That tiny gesture of possessiveness shatters me completely.
The pleasure hits me like a hammer, a violent, shattering blow that rips a guttural groan from my throat. I double over, my forehead pressing against the cold stone as my body empties itself, the release dragging a ragged shout from my lungs. For a long moment, there is nothing but the blinding heat of it, the sheer, animalistic satisfaction of a need finally met.
But then the tide recedes. Now there is nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the thundering of my heart against my ribs.
But one chilling thought remains.
No amount of distance or discipline will erase what tonight carved into me.