Chapter 123 Releasing some Tension
The water had gone lukewarm around me, but I didn't care. I leaned back against the curved edge of the tub, my arms draped over the sides, and let the silence of the room wrap around me like a shroud. Steam still curled faintly from the surface, ghosting upward past the scented candles I'd lit on the counter, their flames now burned low. The bath had been an impulse, a desperate need to wash away the grime and exhaustion of travel, but more than that, to drown out the noise inside my skull.
Queen Isolde’s face kept floating up behind my closed eyes. The way she'd looked at me across the room her mouth twisted with contempt I'd imagined countless times. The reunion I'd built up in my mind, fantasized about through sleepless nights had shattered the moment she opened her mouth. No embrace. No tears of joy. Just cold, cutting words and the subtle gesture that sent assassins. My own mother had sent assassins after me.
I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, watching the water ripple around my breasts. The ache in my chest wasn't new. It had lived there for years, a hollow thing that gnawed at my ribs. But understanding,that was the blade that cut deeper. I understood why she hated me. I carried my father's blood in my veins, his face in the curve of my jaw, his wicked deeds in every cell of my body. What he'd done to her, the wounds he'd carved into her soul, I was the living reminder of all of it. Every time she looked at me, she saw him. And I understand why she wanted me gone.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips, echoing off the tile. At least that was something we shared. I hate him too.
The door swung open without a knock, without hesitation, and my eyes snapped toward the sound. Darius stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, backlit by the dim bedroom lights. His dark eyes found me instantly, tracking over the water, the curve of my body beneath the surface, the way my dark hair clung to my neck and shoulders. He didn't look apologetic. He didn't look away.
"Ever heard of privacy?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. Or maybe exactly as sharp as I meant it to be.
One corner of his mouth lifted, that familiar, infuriating half-smile that made my stomach clench and my heart flutter in equal measure. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the click of the latch final in the quiet room.
"You're my mate," he said simply, as if that explained everything. As if that gave him the right to walk into any space I occupied, to lay claim to every inch of me. "I've seen you naked a thousand times."
"That doesn't make it less creepy."
"It makes it mine."
My pulse jumped, and I hated myself for it. Hated the way my body reacted to the possession in his voice, the primal certainty that dripped from every syllable. He moved toward the tub, and I watched the fluid roll of his muscles beneath his skin, the way the candlelight caught the planes of his chest. He'd already discarded his shirt somewhere,when had he started walking around half-naked. Had I simply grown used to it? Or had I stopped noticing because I didn't want to admit how much I liked looking for fear he’d arrogantly make fun of me?
His hands went to the waistband of his slacks and he pushed them down without ceremony, stepping out of the fabric and leaving it in a heap on the floor. My breath caught despite myself. He was already half-hard, his cock thick and heavy between his thighs, through his briefs and the sight of it sent a pulse of heat through my core that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting in." He didn't phrase it as a question or a request. He simply removed his briefs and stepped over the edge of the tub and lowered himself into the water behind me, the displacement sending waves lapping against my skin. The tub was large, but not large enough. His legs bracketed mine, his chest pressing against my back, and I felt every inch of contact like a brand.
I should have moved. Should have climbed out and grabbed a towel and told him to have some manners and respect my privacy. But my body betrayed me, leaning back into the solid warmth of him before my mind could catch up. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the hard length of his cock press against the small of my back.
"I know you feel bad about what happened in New Orleans," he murmured against my hair, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His voice was low, rough, and it vibrated through me. "But you'll always have me."
"I don't want you," I lied, the words thin and unconvincing even to my own ears.
His laugh was soft, dark, knowing. "Your mouth says one thing. Your body says another." His hand slid up from my waist, trailing over my ribs, and I shivered despite the warmth of the water. "You've always been a terrible liar, Lyra."
His palm cupped my breast, and I sucked in a sharp breath. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and I felt my nipple harden against his touch. A moan slipped past my lips before I could stop it, and I hated how desperate it sounded, how desperate I was.
"Darius…" I whined
"Shh." His other hand skimmed down my stomach, slipping beneath the water, and I tensed in anticipation. "Let me take care of you, help you release all the tension and stress "
His fingers found my clit, and my protest died in my throat. He pressed against the swollen bud, circling slowly, deliberately, and my head fell back against his shoulder. The angle gave him perfect access, and he took advantage of it, his touch firm and knowing. He'd done this a thousand times, knew exactly how to wind me up, how to make my thighs tremble and my breath come in short, desperate gasps.
"That's it," he growled against my neck, his lips dragging over the sensitive skin. "Let go for me."
His hand left my breast and wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. The weight of his palm against my pulse point made my heart pound harder, and I felt myself clench around nothing, aching to be filled. He kissed the curve where my neck met my shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin, and I whimpered.
"Please," I breathed, not even sure what I was begging for.
He answered without words. His fingers slid lower, slipping between my folds, and he pushed one finger inside me. I arched against him, the water sloshing around us, and he groaned low in his throat at the feel of me. Wet.
Ready. His.
"Fuck, you're dripping," he rasped against my ear. "And that's not even from the bath."
A second finger joined the first, stretching me open, and I gasped at the intrusion. He began to thrust, curling his fingers with each stroke, finding that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. His grip on my throat tightened just enough to make my pulse jump, and he turned my head to capture my mouth in a searing kiss.
I melted into it. Melted into him. His tongue swept past my lips, claiming me with the same ruthless possession as his fingers, and I kissed him back with a desperation that shamed me. I hated him. I wanted him dead. And yet here I was, writhing against his hand, chasing the pleasure only he could give me.
His thumb found my clit again, pressing in tight circles as his fingers fucked me open. The pressure built low in my belly, coiling tighter with every thrust, every circle, every brush of his lips against mine. I was close, so close, my thighs shaking, my breath coming in ragged sobs against his mouth.
"I'm..I'm going to.."
He stopped.
His fingers withdrew, and I cried out at the loss, my body clenching around nothing. The orgasm that had been seconds away receded like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving me gasping and empty and furious.
"What the fuck…"
Before I could finish, he moved. His hands gripped my hips, lifting me effortlessly, and the water cascaded off my skin as he turned me to face him. I straddled his lap now, my knees on either side of his thighs, my bare pussy pressed against the hard length of his cock. The water lapped around us, disturbed by the movement, and I could see everything,the broad planes of his chest, the dark hunger in his eyes, the thick shaft standing rigid between us.
"Put it in," he commanded, his voice rough with need.
My hands moved before my mind could catch up, wrapping around his cock, feeling the hot, silken weight of him. He groaned at my touch, his head falling back against the edge of the tub, and I positioned him at my entrance. The head pressed against my opening, and I hesitated for just a moment, one last shred of defiance, one final attempt at resistance.
Then I sank down onto him.
The stretch was exquisite. He filled me completely, every inch of him sliding home until I was seated fully in his lap, my pussy wrapped tight around his cock. We both groaned at the sensation, and his hands came up to grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise.
"Move," he growled. "Ride me."
I lifted my hips and dropped back down, setting a rhythm that made the water churn around us. His hands guided me, controlling the pace even when I thought I was the one in charge. Every downstroke pressed him deeper, hit that spot inside me that made my vision blur, and I braced my hands against his shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck, Lyra." His voice was strained, wrecked. "You feel so goddamn good, you’ll be the death of me."
I couldn't answer. Could barely think. The world had narrowed to the point where our bodies joined, to the slick slide of him inside me, to the pressure building again in my core. My breasts bounced with every movement, and he leaned forward to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth scraping the sensitive peak.
I cried out, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him against me. The dual sensation of his mouth on my breast and his cock inside me was too much, pushing me closer to the edge with every passing second. My thighs burned from the effort, but I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, chasing the release he'd denied me before.
His hands slid up my back, pressing me closer, and he released my nipple with a wet pop to capture my mouth again. The kiss was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and ragged breaths. I tasted myself on his lips, and it sent a bolt of heat straight to my core.
"Come for me," he murmured against my mouth. "Come on my cock."
The command tipped me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, my whole body shaking, my pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. I broke the kiss to throw my head back, a keening cry tearing from my throat as pleasure whited out my vision.
He followed me over. His hips jerked up, burying himself deep, and I felt him throb inside me as he came. Hot spurts of cum filled me, marking me from the inside, and he groaned my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard, the water growing cool around us.
His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me against his chest, and I let my forehead fall against his shoulder.
The tension went out of me, replaced by a boneless exhaustion that had nothing to do with travel and everything to do with him.
His hand came up to stroke my hair, gentle now, almost tender. "I meant what I said," he murmured against my temple. "Whatever happens, you'll always have me."
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. But I knew he meant every word. The water stilled around us, and I felt his heart beating steadily against my chest. Outside this room, the world waited with its sharp edges and old wounds. But here, in this moment, there was only heat and skin and the desperate ache of two people who couldn't let go of each other even when they could.
I closed my eyes and let myself pretend, just for a breath, that this was enough.
The water had grown lukewarm around us, the last traces of steam curling away into nothing. My limbs felt heavy, sated in a way that made everything else harder.
Then his hands shifted.
I expected him to reach for me again, to take what he wanted, the way he always did. But instead, his fingers slid into my wet hair, gathering the heavy strands away from my face. I stiffened, confused by the gentleness of the gesture.
"Let me," he said quietly.
I didn't answer. I didn't have the energy, not when his touch was... this. Soft. Careful. He reached for the small bottle of shampoo on the tub's edge, and I heard the squeeze of liquid before his hands returned to my scalp.
His fingers moved in slow circles, working the shampoo through my dark hair with a tenderness I hadn't known he possessed. The sensation was intoxicating, his fingertips pressing just hard enough to ease the tension that had coiled at the base of my skull for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.
I closed my eyes despite myself.
His thumbs traced paths behind my ears, down to the nape of my neck, kneading muscles I hadn't realized were screaming. The water lapped gently around us as he rinsed the suds away, cupping handfuls of water and letting them cascade through my hair again and again until every trace of soap was gone.
A lump formed in my throat.
It was absurd. Here I was, naked in a bathtub with the man who'd claimed me against my will, who'd hunted me, who'd dragged me into his orbit and refused to let go. And yet this simple act of care undid something in me that his dominance couldn't touch. His fingers in my hair felt like an apology,for what my father and mother had done, for what I was, for every wound I'd ever carried.
And I needed it so much.
When the water grew truly cold, Darius rose from the tub, water streaming down his broad chest and the defined muscles of his stomach. He stepped out first, then reached back for me. His grip was firm as he pulled me to stand, then lifted me over the edge of the tub as though I weighed nothing.
A thick towel wrapped around my shoulders, and another went around my hair. He turbaned it expertly, tucking the corner so it stayed in place. Then he reached for a robe hanging on a hook, deep burgundy silk that he held open for me.
I stepped into it without protest, too wrung out to argue or use any sarcasm.
He guided me to sit at a small vanity, and I watched in the mirror as he retrieved a blow dryer from a drawer.
The roar of it filled the bathroom as he worked, his fingers combing through my wet hair, lifting sections and directing warm air until the heavy strands turned soft and dry.
When my hair was finished, he set down the dryer and reached for a jar of moisturizer on the counter. He unscrewed the lid, dipped his fingers in, and began to apply the cream to my shoulders and arms.
His hands moved down to my collarbone, then lower, pushing the robe open to reach my chest.
I slapped his hand away.
"Stop that," I muttered.
He smiled, that infuriating, knowing smile, but his hands returned to more innocent paths, smoothing moisturizer over my stomach, my arms, my hands. Then he tried again, sliding his palm over my breast.
I slapped him harder this time. "I said stop."
"You didn't really mean it the first time," he said, his voice low with amusement.
"I mean it every time."
He laughed softly, but his hands behaved, for the most part. They wandered occasionally, his fingers tracing the swell of my hip or brushing the inside of my thigh, and each time I corrected him with a sharp smack. He took the punishment without complaint, looking almost pleased by it.
When he finished, he pulled me to my feet and scooped me into his arms. I opened my mouth to protest, but I couldn't walk, and he was already carrying me out of the bathroom, into the bedroom beyond. I pieced me in my feet before removing my robe.
The sheets were cool against my back as he lay me down. He shed the towel around his waist, letting it drop to the floor, and I saw his cock already hardening, rising against his stomach.
He settled over me, his weight supported on his elbows, and for a moment he simply looked at me. His dark eyes held something that might have been reverence. Or possession. With Darius, the two were impossible to separate.
He lowered his head to my chest.
His mouth found my breast, and I gasped as he drew the nipple in. His tongue circled, slow and deliberate, before he sucked harder, pulling the sensitive flesh deeper, his teeth grazing just enough to make me arch beneath him. One hand cupped my other breast, his thumb rolling the nipple, treating both with the same maddening patience.
My body was quick to respond. Heat pooled between my thighs, and I felt myself growing wet despite every logical thought screaming, we should go to bed because I have an early morning tomorrow with Mara.
His mouth traveled lower, over my ribs, across my stomach, pressing kisses to the soft skin of my hips. He nudged my thighs apart and settled between them, his cock hard and ready against my entrance.
He didn't thrust. He didn't take. He simply pressed forward, inch by slow inch, filling me with a gentleness that felt almost obscene in its intimacy.
I moaned before I could stop myself.
Each stroke was deliberate, deep, and measured. He kissed me as he moved, my jaw, my neck, the corner of my mouth. His hands framed my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones as though I were something precious.
"Lyra," he breathed against my lips.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My body had taken over, my hips rising to meet his, my legs wrapping around his back to pull him deeper. The pleasure built slowly, a rising tide rather than a storm, and when it crested, I shattered with a cry I couldn't hold back.
He followed me over the edge, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like my name.
But he didn't stop.
He hardened again within minutes and continued, his mouth returning to my breasts, sucking and kissing until I was trembling. Then he'd slide back inside, his hips rocking in that same devastating rhythm, until we both fell apart once more.
Again.
And again.
All through the night, he made love to me with a tenderness that felt like a cage, and I wasn't sure anymore if I wanted to escape it.