Chapter 22 Elena Heart- POV
Xavier's hands loosened their grip on my hips, sliding up to trace gentle patterns on my lower back, avoiding the burns, I noticed, even in his post-coital haze. The tenderness of the gesture struck me harder than his earlier roughness, and I felt something tight loosen in my chest.
His fingers moved with infinite care, as if I were something precious, something worth protecting, and the contrast to the way he'd taken me, commanded me, made my throat tight with unexpected emotion.
"You're still here," he murmured, his voice rough and wondering, as if he couldn't quite believe it. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip with a gentleness that made my eyes burn.
"I thought, when you came for me, I thought you would leave after. That this was a weapon, a means to an end."
I didn't know how to answer. I was still here, on top of him, around him, marked by him in ways that went far beyond the physical. The assassin who'd come to kill him had been replaced by a woman who didn't know what she wanted anymore, only that she couldn't bear to leave this moment.
The mission felt like a dream, something that had happened to another person in another life. The only reality was his skin against mine, his breath mingling with mine, the slow thud of his heart beneath my palm.
So I said nothing. I only lowered myself until my forehead rested against his, our breath mingling, our hearts still beating in time. His hand came up to tangle in my hair, holding me there with a pressure that was almost desperate, as if he needed to keep me close, needed to believe I wouldn't vanish with the morning light.
In the silence of the cottage, with the dangers of the world held at bay by thin walls and moonlight, I let myself pretend that this was enough. That he was enough. That we were enough.
But even as I thought it, I felt the phantom weight of the mask I'd worn to reach him, the black enamel and twisted silver that had hidden my face while I planned his death. I thought of my father, somewhere in the shadows of our farm, waiting for news of Xavier's demise. I thought of the poison still hidden in the lining of my discarded cloak, of the knife strapped to my thigh that I'd never reached for.
Xavier's hand traced down my spine, fingers lingering on each vertebra with a tenderness that made me want to weep.
"Tell me," he whispered, and I heard the fear in his voice, the need to understand what had changed, what had brought his assassin to his bed instead of his throat. "Tell me why you're still here."
I pulled back enough to look at him, to see the moonlight silvering his hair, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. He was beautiful in a way that hurt, beautiful in his scars and his hunger and his desperate hope.
And I realized that I couldn't lie to him, not now, not with his release still warm inside me and his hand cradling my face like I was something worth saving.
"I don't know," I admitted, and the truth of it tasted like salt and smoke. "I came here to ruin you. To destroy everything you've built." My voice cracked, and I hated the weakness of it, hated that he'd stripped me so bare without even trying.
"But when you touched me, when you looked at me like I was real, like I mattered—" I broke off, shaking my head. "I don't care anymore. I have no idea why I'm doing this to the person I swore to ruin. All that matters was that you saved me. You wanted me."
His eyes closed, and I watched the war play out across his features, the suspicion that had kept him alive, the hope that had somehow survived it. When he opened them again, they were wet, shining in the moonlight, and he pulled me down to kiss him with a desperation that tasted like forgiveness and fear and something that might, if I let myself believe it, be love.
His tongue swept into my mouth, slow and searching, as if he were learning me, claiming me in a different way than before. I kissed him back with equal hunger, tasting the salt of his tears, the copper of his earlier wounds, the unique flavor that was simply him. My hips rolled against him without thought, and I felt him stir inside me, still sensitive, still willing.
"Again," he whispered against my lips, and it wasn't a command this time but a plea. "Let me have you again. Let me pretend—" He broke off, shaking his head, but I knew what he wouldn't say. Let me pretend you won't leave. Let me pretend this is real.
I rose up on my knees, feeling him slide out of me, the wetness between my thighs making the movement obscene, filthy, perfect. I reached between us to guide him back to my entrance, watching his face as I sank down onto him once more, taking him to the hilt in one slow movement that made us both groan.
"Not pretending," I said, and I didn't know if it was a lie or a promise or simply the only truth I had left. I began to move, slower this time, rolling my hips in deep, grinding circles that rubbed my clit against him with every stroke. "This is real. I'm real. I'm here."
Xavier's hands found my breasts again, kneading, pinching, driving me toward another peak with relentless patience.
His eyes never left mine, watching every flicker of pleasure, every moment of doubt, every desperate attempt to hide what I was feeling. He saw it all, I realized. He always had. Even masked, even armed, even sworn to kill him, he'd seen through me from the first moment.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice rough with renewed need. "I want to watch you make yourself cum. I want to see exactly how you like it."
The order sent heat spiraling through me, and I didn't hesitate. My hand slipped between us, fingers finding my clit, already swollen and sensitive from before. I circled it with the pressure I knew would build me fastest, my hips never stopping their rhythm, my eyes locked on his as I pleasured myself with him inside me.
"Ah... ah..." The sounds came unbidden, breathy and broken. I could feel the tension building again, faster this time, my body already primed and desperate. "I'm going to cum again... I'm going to cum again."
"Yes," he groaned, his hips thrusting upward to meet me, the sound of our bodies coming together wet and obscene in the quiet cottage. "Let me feel it. Let me feel you squeeze me when you come. I want to feel how much you need this. How much you need me."