Chapter 167 I Choose You Too

Chapter 167 I Choose You Too
Cian
I have never been more honoured in my life.
The crown sits light on my head. Cool stems and soft petals brush my temple. The weight of it is almost nothing, and yet it presses deeper than any metal circlet ever could. Rae’s hands are still raised between us, fingers trembling where they brushed my hair. Her eyes are wet and bright and fixed on mine.
I will not waste a single moment waiting to show her what this means.
I stand as the court remains quiet around us. 
Lantern light sways. Music has thinned to a low thread of strings. I feel every gaze, but none of them matter. Only the woman in front of me matters.
I take her into my arms.
One hand slides around the small of her back. The other cups the back of her head. She fits against me the way she always has. Soft curves. Warm breath. The faint scent of crushed blossoms and wine and her own skin rising between us. 
I lower my mouth to her ear.
“Come with me.”
She nods against my chest, and I turn and walk.
The gardens part for us without a word. People step aside. Someone laughs softly somewhere behind, but the sound stays distant. Lanterns sway as we pass beneath them, throwing moving pools of amber across the path. 
We move through the lower archways and into the quieter corridors of Hollow Hill. The music fades further with every step. 
I keep her pressed close against my side, one hand firm at the curve of her hip, guiding her without hurry. There is no need to rush. The night belongs to us now.
The stairs to our rooms rise in a slow curve of dark stone. 
I lift her before she can take the first step. She makes a small sound of surprise that turns into a quiet laugh against my neck. Her legs wrap around my waist. Her arms settle over my shoulders. 
I do not stop until the door of our chamber is shut behind us.
The room is dim, lit only by a single lantern that burns low near the window. 
I set her down on the edge of the bed, and then I kneel again.
The same way I knelt in the garden. Only this time there is no court watching—only Rae, looking down at me with wide eyes and a flush already climbing her throat.
I take one of her bare feet in both hands. The sole is cool from the stone paths. I warm it between my palms, then press my mouth to the arch. She inhales sharply, and I move higher, kissing the inside of her ankle, the soft place behind her knee. 
My hands slide up the outside of her thighs, gathering the light brown fabric of her dress as I go. The skin beneath is warm and smooth under my touch.
I rise only long enough to draw the dress over her head.
It falls somewhere behind me, and the simple underthings follow. Then she is bare on the edge of our bed, flower petals still caught in her hair, lantern light painting gold across her collarbones and the soft weight of her breasts.
I look at her the way a starving man looks at the first real meal after years of nothing.
My hands settle on her waist, thumbs stroking the gentle inward curve above her hips. I feel the way her breath moves under my palms. The slight tremor that runs through her when I lean in and open my mouth against the hollow of her throat. Salt and warmth and the faint sweetness that belongs only to her. I drag my lips higher, along the line of her jaw, until I find her mouth.
Her hands slide into my hair, careful of the crown still resting there. I feel the stems shift. A few petals fall onto her shoulders. 
I shrug out of my coat without breaking the kiss, then the shirt beneath. Her palms find my bare chest, fingers spreading over the old scars, tracing the raised lines with a tenderness that still undoes me. One hand drifts lower, over the hard plane of my stomach, until her fingertips brush the waistband of my trousers.
I catch her wrist.
“Not yet.”
I guide her back onto the mattress, and I follow, bracing my weight on one forearm. My other hand maps her body with deliberate care. The outer curve of one breast. The tight peak that hardens under my thumb. The soft plane of her stomach. The warm crease where thigh meets hip.
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth.
She arches, with a soft sound leaving her throat. I draw on her slowly, feeling the way her body rises toward every pull. 
My free hand slides between her thighs and finds her already slick. I stroke through the heat of her with two fingers, circling the swollen peak until her hips begin to move against my hand. Then I ease those fingers inside her.
Tight. Wet. Perfect.
I work her with slow, curling strokes while my mouth moves to the other breast. 
Her hands fist in the sheets, and her breath turns uneven. I feel every flutter of her inner walls around my fingers, every small clench that tells me she is climbing. I keep the same steady rhythm until her thighs tighten and a long, trembling cry breaks from her. 
She comes around my fingers in hard pulses, body bowing up from the mattress, face turned into the crook of my neck.
I stay with her through it.
When the last tremor fades, I withdraw my hand and bring my fingers to my mouth. Her taste spreads across my tongue, sweet and familiar and completely mine. 
Her eyes track the movement, dark and dazed.
I shed the rest of my clothes.
Then I settle between her thighs and press the head of my cock against her entrance. The heat of her kisses the tip before I push forward slowly, watching her face the entire time. 
The first stretch of her around me drags a low sound from deep in my chest. I sink deeper by degrees, feeling every inch of her body open for me, until I am buried completely inside of her.
I stay there.
Forehead to forehead. Breath shared. The flower crown still resting in my hair. Her legs wrapped around my waist. The soft mattress cradling us both.
“I choose you too,” I tell her, voice rough. “Every day. Every night. Until the roads themselves forget our names.”
Then I begin to move.