#cardinal fics

Sylus has always been passionate, but there’s something almost frantic in the flavor of his attention right now.

Something you’re powerless to deny.

So you loll your head to the side and melt into his touch. “Then have me,” you reply.

Between one breath and the next, he hoists you off your feet and deposits you onto the counter, gentle even in his urgency, and you part your legs to welcome him.

His countenance is one of exhaustion. Of irritation. Of a business deal gone sideways. He’s drawn up in stern angles and bone-deep tension, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, in his eyes, there’s only a plea. He reaches for you like a drowning man reaches for a rope, one hand going to your neck and the other to your waist as he steps forward and pulls you in for a kiss. Even like this, with you sitting on the counter, he towers over you, formidable as a Redwood.

You lean into his affection and let him set the pace. Later, there will be time later for talking. Right now, he needs something else.

Sweet, syrupy longing pools in your core as Sylus glides his fingers up your thighs, slow, just the way you like. He’s holding himself back— you know he is. It’s clear he wants to devour you, but, as always, he’s putting himself second, ever the knight in service of his queen.

If it was possible to fall more in love with him, you would.

A groan rolls through Sylus’s chest, followed by static tingling against your skin, and then your underwear is dissolving into nothing, consumed by his Evol. Eager to match him, you go for his belt, but he simply guides your hands back to his neck and tugs you impossibly closer.

Where you were expecting a waltz, he’s offered a tango.

All right then.

Suddenly, Sylus breaks the kiss— gazes down at you with unguarded desire, a promise written in piercing, brilliant crimson. Wordlessly, he lays you out, at once reverent and impatient as he kneels and drops a kiss to the inside of your knee. And then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and wicked.

You gasp, arching off the counter and tangling a hand in his hair to anchor yourself against his onslaught. It’s unfair how well he knows your body, how effortlessly he can rile you up.

So much for going slow.

Sylus drags his tongue through your folds, humming as he reacquaints himself with your taste. The shift in his demeanor is immediate, now that he’s taking refuge in you. Gone is the crease between his brows and the stiffness in his shoulders. Whatever was troubling him doesn’t exist in this pocket of bliss he’s carved out, and you’re glad for it.

Perhaps you’d say as much if you could hold onto a coherent thought, but want crests within you like a wave, molten and electric as it sluices through your limbs and settles in your gut.

Briefly, Sylus’s right eye flares a familiar shade of noxious, enticing red, but then he slams his eyes shut and groans, his voice vibrating against you in a way that makes you whimper. Nudges you closer to the edge.

You grind against him, asking for more, and he’s quick to give it to you, sealing his mouth around your cunt and focusing on your clit— fast, potent flicks that send you careening into oblivion.

He works you through it, gloriously steadfast despite your thrashing. But then it becomes too much.

And he’s not letting up.

“Sy-Sylus, w-wait—”

Mischief flashes in his eyes, and he tightens his hold on your hips.

Prickling, vindictive heat coalesces in your core— an engine fired back up too soon. You yank on his hair, and he fixes you with a reproving stare. Then whirling bands of his Evol twine around your wrists and pin your arms above your head.

“Sy—” The rest of his name is lost to a whine, your breaths turning shallow as he bullies a second orgasm out of you on the heels of your first. It’s meaner, this one— stinging through your veins like wildfire.

When you’re on the other side of it, your ears still ringing, Sylus’s voice reaches you, soft and adoring: “That’s my girl.”

The praise coaxes a pleasure-dumb noise out of you, and that’s all the respite you get before Sylus descends on you once more.

You squeak and try to wriggle away, but he’s not having it. He stands, taking you with him, an arm banded firmly around your hips and his mouth fastened just as firmly to your cunt. When he stops moving, your weight is concentrated on your shoulder blades and he’s looming over you, half illuminated by the still-open fridge.

Cool air wafts across your bare thigh, and you hiss. Shiver.

In response, Sylus cocks an eyebrow.

Oh no.

You recognize that face. It’s the face he makes when he’s scheming, and you see it the moment an idea takes root in his mind. As he continues to lap at you, he rotates his wrist inward to glance at his watch, then he grunts in annoyance—or maybe frustration—and seemingly abandons his plan, instead settling for tormenting you with his tongue.

You’re begging for mercy by the time you unravel for the third time, legs shaking, heart pounding. Sylus gives it to you in the shape of a chaste kiss to the crease of your hip. After, he carefully lowers you back down onto the counter and releases your wrists from the grip of his Evol.

You don’t move.

With a chuckle, he leans over your boneless form to press another kiss to the center of your chest.

And then he’s pulling away— rooting around in the fridge for something unknowable, his broad shoulders blocking your view as the clatter of plastic drawers echoes throughout the empty kitchen. He returns a moment later, kicking the fridge closed with his foot, and plunks a bottle of water near your head, a smirk plastered on his too-handsome face. Then he adds the container of cobbler and a pint of vanilla ice cream to his offerings.

The next moment, you’re inside a yurt, its flap angrily slapping shut behind you as you untuck your head from beneath Sylus’s chin to take everything in. A circular, knee-height wall transitions into a slanted ceiling that’s held up by a central post, and there’s a single lantern hanging near the top that throws dim orange light over the tiny space. Shadows lick across the rug-covered floor, the deep burgundies and muted yellows of the weaves flashing brown and grey as bursts of lightning filter through the canopy.

Sylus sets you down gently, and you immediately miss his warmth. You shake out your legs to try and get some feeling back in them after the hard ride but stop as soon as you realize you’re just flinging water everywhere, including on Tarna. There’s barely enough room for the three of you to stand in here comfortably, especially with Sylus’s broad frame. But shelter is shelter, and you’re grateful for it.

“Apologies that we don’t have anything larger,” Tarna says, hunching slightly so that she can stand a bit farther away from the two of you without her head scraping the yurt, “but it should at least keep you dry and shield you from the worst of the cold.”

You push your hair back to stop water dripping down your face and then scan the interior. In addition to the lantern, there’s a single, too-narrow bedroll and exactly one blanket. Wonderful.

“Thank you,” Sylus says to Tarna, sincere in his appreciation but also effectively dismissing her.

With a half-bow, Tarna mutters a polite See you in the morning, and then she’s gone, leaving you alone with Sylus.

Sylus and the singular bedroll.

If the evening hadn’t turned quite so cruel, you might have the energy to track down a second one. But it did, and you don’t, so with a resigned sigh, you toe off your boots and step toward the pallet. It’s just one night. And besides, you’re so exhausted that you’ll probably pass out before your head even hits the pillow.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

You pause in your tracks and stare blankly at Sylus. “Going… to bed?”

He props a hand on his hip and gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes roving up and down your form as he appraises you with palpable distaste. “Not like that you’re not.”

A peal of thunder shakes the yurt, and you look down at yourself, unsure what fault he found. “Like what?”

“You’re soaked to the bone, kitten.” The cool red of his gaze is steady on you as water slips over his cheeks and down his neck, little rivulets catching the lamplight before they disappear beneath his collar. “Clothes need to come off.”

You huff out a timid laugh, and then you realize he’s not joking. “It was just a bit of rain,” you say, wishing you sounded more convincing.

“Sweetie, we are, at best, several centuries removed from the medicine that can effectively treat pneumonia.” He folds his arms across his chest like he’s squaring up for an argument. “And besides, we have to share a blanket— one which I’d prefer you didn’t get sopping wet.” He lifts a brow. “Now strip.”

The command sends a pulse of nervous energy through your limbs, but he’s right. You hate that he’s right. And you hate even more that the thought of being naked around him is causing your blood to heat.

He looks at you expectantly.

You’re being ridiculous. You’re both adults, and it’s just one night. You can do this. Better exposed than ill, or however the saying goes. “Turn around,” you mutter weakly.

Sylus looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he just closes his mouth and dutifully faces the entrance to the yurt, giving you his back.

You let a few seconds pass, just to be sure that he’s going to stay put, and when he does, you begin the arduous process of peeling off layer after layer of rain-drenched fabric. Your pants and long-sleeved shirt fight you something fierce, but you’re eventually victorious. Once you’re bare, you lay your clothes flat on one of the rugs and send up a silent prayer that everything will be dry by morning.

After, you quickly slide into the bedroll, desperate to both hide your nudity and escape from the slight draft seeping into the confined space. To your surprise, the blanket is thick and heavy— a sturdy but pliable weave that’s less scratchy than it looks.

“You can turn around now,” you say to Sylus, covers pulled up to your chin.

He moves slowly, head lagging a moment behind his shoulders like he’s waiting for you to take back your words. But you don’t, and then he’s facing you, a gentle smirk warming his features.

And then he goes for his belt.

You squeak and duck under the blanket before you see something you shouldn’t.

The soft trill of his laughter fills the yurt as he says, “My, my. Someone’s awfully shy tonight.”

“I’m just… giving you your privacy.”

He lets out an amused huff. “Sure you are.”

Heavy, wet snaps of fabric startles you a few times as Sylus disrobes, but you resolutely remain beneath the covers, eyes pinched shut just in case the visual barrier were to fail.

Sylus putters around for longer than you expect, but from the sounds of it—the rasping slide of leather cord becoming knots—he’s tying off the entrance to the yurt. Smart. Thanks to his efforts, maybe you won’t wake up half-frozen. Eventually, his steps carry him toward the bedroll, and you hurriedly roll onto your side so that you’re facing away from him.

He slides in without fanfare, then his voice is at your ear, a slow drawl that has your breath stuttering: “Do I need to beg for it?”

You peek over the blanket to find him far too close, and you choke out a garbled, “What?”

His mouth pulls into a devilish grin. “The blanket, kitten.” His gaze crawls over your thoroughly cocooned body before returning to your eyes. “Unless you’ve decided not to share?”

“Oh. Right.” You slowly feed some of it to him while also scooting yourself a bit farther away, to the very edge of the bedroll.

“Much obliged,” he says, rustling next to you as he adjusts the lay of the blanket across his chest.

His hair is a darker shade of grey, you notice, color weighed down by the rain. It suits him well enough, but you find yourself missing the ashen, silvered hue you’ve grown so used to.

Finally, without so much as a sideways glance in your direction, Sylus folds an arm behind his head, tosses you an austere Sleep well, kitten, and lets his eyes drift shut.

Seconds pass, and you’re unable to turn back around, captivated by how the lamplight plays against his skin, how it’s melting away the timeless severity of his features. You almost don’t recognize him without a cutting smirk plastered on his face. He’s not relaxed—not exactly—but he seems… less burdened.

The longer you stare, the more you want to reach over and trace the elegant slope of his jaw. Would he enjoy your touch, you wonder?

You ball your hand to keep from acting on the impulse and instead push out an irritated sigh.

“If you're struggling to fall asleep,” he says, jolting you out of your revelry, “I know a trick we could try.” His eyes remain shut even as the ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You clench your jaw and turn away, curling your knees to your chest in search of warmth that doesn’t exist.

He lets out a sigh of his own. “Suit yourself.”

Rain pelts the yurt from all directions, winds carving chaotic patterns as the thunder rolls across the plains. It goes on and on, showing no signs of abating. You’ve experienced worse storms by far, but never with only a few layers of tanned hides and a bit of felt between you and the elements. Lightning flashes here and there, unpredictable and rudely startling you awake on the rare occasion that you’re comfortable enough to begin drifting off. It would be less annoying if your wet hair wasn’t sapping every last ounce of heat from your body.

You’re miserable, you decide.

You’re cold and wet and naked and miserable.

And then an arm wraps around your middle and drags you backward until you’re pressed flush against a warm, broad chest.

“W-what are you doing?” you ask, pulse skittering.

Sylus fits his arm atop yours, his elbow ending up near your stomach as his hand loosely covers your fist. His breaths are close and warm against your ear. “Your shivering is making it impossible to sleep,” he says.

You swallow. “Then I’ll put my clothes back on.”

“Nonsense, they’re still wet.” His voice has a gravelly quality to it you haven’t heard before— vague and lazy from exhaustion, like he’s hinting at words more so than saying them. “You do that and you’ll be even worse off than you were before.”

“Sylus, we’re naked,” you whisper, a note of panic in your tone.

“Oh?” he says. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sylus—”

“Relax, kitten. It’s a cold night, and we both need to get some rest.”

A particularly harsh gust of wind forces its way through the gaps around the yurt’s entry flap, and you shiver as the cold air hits your face.

“Let me keep you warm,” he finishes.

He is quite warm. In fact, the chill that had settled into your bones is already subsiding, and maybe you’re a fool but you don’t want to give up your only source of heat. “Fine, but no funny business.”

He huffs a laugh, and for some reason that puts you at ease. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

His offer seems genuine enough, so you finally untense your muscles and relax into him, glad for his warmth and the weight of his arm slung over your waist. But when Sylus pulled you to him, you must have ended up on top of a rock, or maybe a stick, and it’s digging painfully into your hip. You wiggle a bit to find a more comfortable position, and a choked sound catches in his throat, his cock stirring against the back of your thigh.

“As long as you don’t keep squirming like that,” he adds.

You immediately go still and wonder, not for the first time, if it would be possible to just cease existing. Perhaps a resonance burst could take you out? “Sorry,” you whisper.

Sylus exhales a slow, strained breath but eventually calms his body back down.

Outside, the storm rages on, a steady barrage of thunder and lightning and all the trappings of an angry god. Perhaps it’s a consequence of your arrival here— a cosmic balancing of the scales that you disturbed when you hurtled back through time. Or perhaps it’s just poor luck.

Then, there’s a different noise.

At first, you try to convince yourself that it’s creaking wood or wailing animals or anything other than pleasure-drunk moans coming from one of the nearby yurts. But as Sylus’s cock grows steadily harder, the faint pulse of his quickened heartbeat thrumming against your skin, you know your instincts are correct.

To his credit, he keeps his breathing even.

You, on the other hand, are faring much worse, and as you fight to remain unaffected, heat stubbornly pools low in your belly— a barely tolerable simmer that threatens to become more. Your thoughts stray to how easy it would be for Sylus to sheath himself in you, to push slowly, brazenly into you. Just a shift of his hips, and your bodies would be joined.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t be so simple.

Perhaps he’d first need to prepare you with his fingers— stretch you so that you could take him. He feels big, you can’t help but notice. Big and heavy and thick.

The unmistakable slap of skin against skin filters through the thin walls of the yurt, and Sylus’s cock twitches.

“How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?” you ask, unable to stand the unnatural silence any longer.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then: “Is there something unconvincing about my performance?”

You purse your lips to keep from laughing. “Oh, just one rather large something, I’d say.”

Sylus buries his forehead in the curve of your neck. “I’m trying my best here, kitten. Go easy on me.”

“It’s okay,” you say, suddenly wanting to reassure him, and then another wave of energetic moans cuts through the patter of rain. It sends a surge of heat straight to your core, and you squeeze your thighs together to take the edge off. “They’re, uh… getting to me, too.”

Sylus groans, his cock pressing against you a bit more firmly as he tightens his grip on your hand. “Stop talking,” he says, voice stiff and rough, and if he meant to discourage you, he did a terrible job.

You want to hear more of him like this, like he’s fighting for composure just as badly as you are.

So you cant your hips, and the angle is such that your slick cunt drags along the hot, hard length of him.

Sylus’s hand darts up to grab your jaw, grip almost punishing as he turns your head until vibrant, searing crimson is all you can see. “You are playing a very dangerous game, sweetie. My self-control is not limitless.”

You smile and brush the tip of your nose against his. “Mmm, I’m counting on it,” you say, and then you grind against him again, bolder than before.

You’re tired of pretending like you don’t want him, like you haven’t wanted him for weeks now. Like you haven’t spent multiple nights with your hand between your thighs thinking of what it would be like to have his body moving against yours, taut muscles gleaming with sweat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

What it would feel like to have him filling you, fucking you, ruining you for anyone else, his teeth at your neck marking you as his.

You want to know what shade of red his eyes are when he’s lost to pleasure.

And you want to know what sound he gives up when he comes.

On a sharp exhale, Sylus abruptly pulls back far enough to wedge the blanket between your bodies, partially uncovering himself in the process, and you instantly hate the fibrous layer of wool that replaces the smooth flesh of his hips. His eyes are pinched shut, brows drawn together like he’s in pain as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Did I… do something wrong?” you ask, voice small.

The briefest of smiles— there and gone before you can even blink. “Not in the slightest,” he says, subtly shaking his head. Those striking red eyes of his find you again, hot as embers, sharp as glass.

You press your lips together, suddenly worried you catastrophically misread this entire situation, that he really was only interested in keeping you warm. “Then… do you not… want me… like that?”

“Oh, kitten.” His expression softens as he brings a hand to your jaw. “I want to bed you more than I want to breathe.”

Your breath hitches at the unexpected confession, and you bite your lip. Slowly, cautiously, you roll so that your back is flat on the pallet, and then you slide yourself closer. Tuck yourself beneath him. “So bed me.”

His eyes roam over you, catching on your lips, your neck, the rise and fall of your chest, and there’s something almost mournful in his gaze. “Not like this,” he says, brushing a strand of damp hair off your forehead, touch light. “Not surrounded by mud and goats.” His hand finally settles against your jaw, fingers so long they curl around to the back of your head. “You deserve better than that.”

“I don’t want better,” you say. “I want now.” Heart in your throat, you bring a palm to his chest, astonished at how his muscles tense at the mildest of contact. “I want you.”

Sylus sweeps his thumb over your cheek, staring at you with such soft wonder that it makes you ache. “Say that again.”

It might be the first honest thing he’s ever asked of you, and he looks like he’ll die if you refuse him. When did you amass such power over him? Warmth trickles down your spine. “I want you, Sylus.”

He smiles but it’s fragile, eyes flitting over your features like he’s discovering each of them anew. “I never have been able to deny you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession, like an apology.

You want to ask him what he means. You’ve only known each other for a short time, during which he’s done nothing but press your buttons— expertly, you might add. He is a vexing, tedious, insolent man... that you'd very much like to fuck, it turns out. So instead, you hold your breath as his lips brush against yours, featherlight. You’ve always struggled with patience, but for this—for him—you’ll try.

He looks at you again, gaze so molten that it could raze entire cities. “No sense in starting now.”

And then he kisses you. He kisses you so hard it hurts. Kisses you so hard you can think of nothing else, his lips plush and sure and hungry against yours. You gasp when he licks into you, stealing bits of his breath to fill your lungs with the taste of him.

“On one condition,” Sylus says, breaking away.

You surge forward, instinctively chasing after his mouth, but he’s faster than you and you’re left panting. “Are you—” You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you trying to negotiate with me right now?”

A slow grin spreads across his too-handsome face. “Maybe.” He dips his head to lick and suck his way down your throat. “Are you in the mood to bargain?”

You groan, fingers digging into his shoulders as you arch into him, sick for more. “Name your terms.” He lazily kneads your breast, and you whine. “Quickly.”

“So demanding,” he chides, nuzzling at your pulse point.

“Sylus.”

He stifles a laugh, clearly enjoying himself. “First you don’t want me to touch you, and now I’m not touching you enough.” His thumb brushes the underside of your breast before he glides his hand down, down, down— over your ribs, your hip, touch scorching you more thoroughly than any flames ever could. “I’m getting mixed signals, kitten.”

You bury your fingers in his hair and yank, pulling his head back so that you can glare at him properly. “You are such a tease,” you hiss.

“All right, all right. Needy little thing.” Sylus palms the back of your thigh and gives a possessive squeeze before he slides his hand back up to cup the curve of your ass. “I propose the following exchange: I give you this now”—he drags a finger along your slit in a way that pulls a moan from your throat—“and once we’re back in our own time, you allow me to take care of you the way you deserve.”

“Deal.” The word is out before he’s even finished his sentence. It’s excruciating, the way you burn for him— the way you’re surely about to combust if you can’t have him here and now and completely.

“Really?” He has the audacity to look bemused as he continues to torment you with almost-touches, clever fingers dipping between your bodies, knuckles brushing against your inner thighs as he coaxes your legs apart. “No clarifying questions? No counter-offer?”

You roll your hips, delirious with want. “Sylus, please don’t make me beg.”

His gaze is a devouring thing, bright with untamed, concentrated hunger. “Oh, but I so love it when you do.”

And then his fingers are at your entrance, pushing in slow and thick. He slants his mouth against yours to swallow the pathetic, warbling noise you make, and then he threads his other arm beneath your neck, cradling you closer as you bow against him, your nipples rubbing against the hard planes of his chest. His thumb circles your clit, and the combination of friction and pressure is so perfectly unbearable, and—

Your release hits you like a thunderclap, swift and sharp.

You throw your head to the side, and Sylus barely manages to cover your mouth with his hand before the scream pours out of you.

“That’s it,” he encourages, lips at your throat, fingers sweetly fucking you through it. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You writhe against him, fractured whines muffled against his palm as you claw at his back, his neck, his hair— any part of him you can reach. But he’s undeterred by your onslaught, and he doesn’t let up until there’s stillness between your tremors, until your keening devolves into scattered whimpers.

“It appears someone was strung a little tight,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear before he pulls back to look at you. “Feel better, kitten?”

His face slips in and out of focus as aftershocks continue to wrack your body. You catch your lower lip between your teeth and hum, dizzy with satisfaction.

Sylus withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, eyes slipping shut as he swipes them across his tongue. He groans, savoring his prize, and then fixes you with a heated gaze. “Would you like a taste?” he asks, hovering the pads of his fingers above your lips, waiting. Watching.

You nod, transfixed by the ravenous glint in his eyes, desiring nothing more than to please him, to see his features twist with want, to hear him make that lovely guttural sound again. So you take his fingers between your lips and suck.

He rewards you with the most beautiful response— body tensing against yours, hand clutching at your jaw. Something like a growl rumbles deep in his chest as he rocks into you, his cock sliding between your thighs, and you’re instantly, hopelessly desperate for more.

Suddenly, the world tilts, and between one breath and the next, you’re above him, knees on either side of his head as whirling bands of his Evol tingle against your limbs. He splays a hand against your lower back to nudge you closer, and then his mouth is on your cunt, the hot, wet glide of his tongue pulling a moan from you.

“Such a noisy kitten,” he says, and the vibration of his voice against your clit has you moaning again. “Much as I adore the sounds you make for me, I’m not overly fond of sharing them with the kind people in this camp. Now, can you keep yourself quiet”—his Evol caresses your mouth, pushing against your lips like a gag—“or will you need some assistance?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, tongue painting a flat, wide stripe along your entrance before flicking pointedly against your clit. You gasp but stop yourself from mewling, and you feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Good girl.”

He’s not gentle with you after that, and you suspect, given his untempered liveliness, that he’s trying to bully a moan out of you. You tangle one hand in his hair and occupy the other with your breast, kneading the sensitive flesh as you grind your hips against his chin, and it earns you a quiet grunt.

And then you hear the drag of skin on skin. You twist enough to glance behind you and discover Sylus is stroking himself, fist closed around his obscenely large cock, and good God how is that thing ever going to fit inside you?

But oh, do you want to try.

Even if it takes all night.

You reach for him, but he’s quicker, his Evol winding around your wrist and then pinning it against your spine.

“Sylus, please—” He suckles at your clit, and you arch, holding your breath until you gain control of your reaction. “Please let me touch you.”

“Gladly,” he mumbles, tilting his head to rub his nose against you so that he’s free to talk. “Just as soon as we’re back in the N109 Zone.”

You pull at his hair, and the lower half of his face may be concealed, but crinkles bunch in the corners of his eyes and you know he’s grinning. “That’s not fair.”

“Consider it motivation,” he says, lifting a brow before he slowly works his mouth against you. “I know I certainly do.”

He’s making it difficult to concentrate but you’re determined. “We— ah— had a deal!”

Sylus turns his head to nip at your inner thigh. “Yes, and perhaps next time you’ll negotiate terms that are more to your liking.”

You can only stare at him slack-jawed, finally realizing what trick he hid beneath his cryptic phrasing earlier. He’ll satisfy you all right, but that will be the limit of tonight’s activities. “Bastard,” you seethe, mostly angry at yourself for being outmaneuvered.

“That’s an odd way of saying that I’m a selfless and attentive lover.” He licks into you greedily as if to prove his point. “Especially since what I’d really like to do is stuff my cock so far down your throat that those pretty eyes of yours get all watery.”

You make a soft sound of arousal and clench on nothing, and Sylus appears to take notice.

“Oh, so you’d like that, would you?” He drags his tongue through your folds, humming thoughtfully. “Mmm, another time, perhaps.”

Your heart drums as wild and hard as the rain, pounding out a beat that feels like a beginning. “We could do that now,” you say, breathless.

He chuckles. “An admirable effort, but I’m afraid we’ve already agreed to tonight’s terms.” Even in the dull dark of the yurt, his gaze is a brilliant red. “And I always honor my deals.”

“Bastard,” you say again, but it lacks heat.

“Impatience has a price, sweetie.” He presses a chaste kiss to your clit and squeezes your hip affectionately. “But just for you, I’ll clear my schedule after we get back so that you can punish me for my numerous and varied transgressions.” And with that, he returns to messily laving at your cunt.

You come undone in perfect silence, a riot of pleasure coursing through your limbs and filling you with such exquisite bliss that you can scarcely breathe.

Beneath you, Sylus groans, low and long, his hand gripping your waist so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t break a rib. And then he goes lax, the once-manic press of his tongue turning languid as you ride out your release. When your hips finally still, he’s gazing up at you with a mixture of awe and arrogance.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” you scold.

His laugh is like music, and it’s quickly becoming your favorite song. “It’s a good thing I have you here to keep me grounded,” he says, lovingly running his hands up and down your waist.

You card your fingers through his still-damp hair. “You’re too far away.”

He hears your request well enough and uses his Evol to reposition you so that you’re lying against his side. You kiss him before your hip even touches the bedroll, groaning when you taste yourself on his tongue.

And then, an idea strikes you. Sex may be off the menu for tonight, but—

You drag a finger through the sticky mess on Sylus’s stomach and then pull back, taking your fingers into your mouth and licking them clean. Sylus watches you with rapt fascination, and you relish in the heady tang of his essence before you swallow.

“Naughty kitten,” he admonishes, though it sounds more like a compliment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he’s clean again, the red-black wisps of his Evol lingering on his skin for a moment until they finally flake away into nothing.

With one hand, Sylus rearranges the blanket so that it’s covering both of you, and with the other, he pulls you against his chest. You slot one of your legs between his and drape an arm across his ribs, just above his heart.

Outside, the storm has calmed to a sluggish drizzle, thunder muted as it rolls in the distance, and you think the worst of it might be past you, but only time will tell.

In the quiet between breaths, a nagging feeling grows in your gut. Eventually, you recognize it for what it is: dread. “Sylus?” you ask, voice thin as you trace small circles against his chest. “What if we can’t get back?”

His response is immediate and firm. “We will.”

“But what if we can’t?”

“Then I’ll count myself lucky to be stuck here with you,” he says, tone all too pleasant.

You push yourself up onto an elbow so that you can glare at him. “Sylus, I’m being serious.”

He sighs— a noisy sound filled with displeasure at being badgered into answering earnestly. Although, it's not exactly an answer when he says, “It’s not safe for us here, sweetie.”

You worry your lip, recalling the way the Talanian people had looked almost… scared of Sylus when you crossed paths earlier today. “Are you saying that because of what happened with Tarna?” She'd made a comment about his eyes, and he’d responded with one of his easy-going laughs and explained the red had been with him since birth, but that had only seemed to make her more wary.

“Partly, but the more pressing issue is your Evol.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and settles his hand against the side of your neck. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but your ability has been a little… unreliable lately, and if you resonate at the wrong time, you’re likely to end up roasting on a spit alongside some hogs.”

You laugh at the thought, absurd as it is. “As if you’d let them lay a finger on me.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, brows lifting in agreement, “but how exactly do you think I’d ensure your safety?”

You frown. “I…”

“How many of them do you think I’d have to kill before they gave up?” he asks, expression almost serene in how resigned it is. “One? Five? Ten? Would I need to wipe out the whole tribe?”

“Sylus, stop,” you say, breath gone from your lungs.

His hand tenses against your neck, and despite the blatant threat, his tone remains soft when he next speaks. “Those are the stakes, kitten. Because you’re right.” Something cruel and ancient flashes behind his eyes. “There’s not a world in which I allow them to harm you.”

The fresh air you’d been enjoying so much is suddenly too thick— oppressive in a way that tastes like poison. “I don’t want you hurting anyone because of me,” you say. It comes out weaker than you intended.

Sylus holds your horrified gaze a moment longer and then guides your head back to his shoulder. “I know,” he says and presses a kiss to your forehead. Perhaps it’s a promise. Perhaps it’s an apology. “Which is why we’re going to find that knife—or the hunk of rock it was carved from—and you’re going to get us back home.” His arm tightens around you. “Anything else is simply not an option.”

You can’t bring yourself to respond, so you just hug him a bit harder.

“And besides,” he says, lips moving against your hair as he squeezes the curve of your ass, “I seem to recall that I have a deal to collect on, and I am very much looking forward to it.”

His words have heat pooling between your thighs again, but he lulls you into a dreamless sleep with gentle touches.

The clouds are gone when morning breaks, and later that afternoon, just as Sylus predicted, you locate the protocore-infected gem. It’s a relief— or, it should be. But for a reason you can’t quite place, you’re sad for the success.

At least, until you remember what awaits you back in the present day.

Sylus sighs. “I said I was sorry.”

“And I said I forgave you.” You haphazardly fling an afghan over your lower half and draw your knees to your chest, already missing the warmth your husband typically provides. Perhaps it’s silly to hold a grudge, but you’re tired of him swooping in to save you when you don’t need saving, especially when he’s made a habit of disregarding your wishes. To his credit, he probably is sorry. He will also probably do it again.

Sylus doesn’t say anything—which is odd; the man is armed to the teeth with quips—and just when you’re about to roll over to check that he still has a pulse, his hand settles on your hip.

“I’ll stop interfering,” he says and touches his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You turn just enough to glance at him sidelong. He’s crouched in a squat next to the chaise and gazing at you with slightly upturned brows. It takes you a moment to place the exact emotion curdling there, in the depths of his eyes, rare as it is to see him express it: remorse. The genuine kind. “You will?” you ask, skeptical.

He makes a noise of assent and brushes his knuckles across your cheek. “You have my word.” His voice is soft but carries the weight of an oath. “Will you come to bed now?”

You consider it. You really do. But, petty as it may be, you’re not done punishing him yet, so you huff out a No and give him your back again.

“No?” he echoes, clearly affronted.

You pinch your eyes shut and burrow deeper into your blanket. “I’m comfortable,” you mutter, which isn’t entirely a lie, and then toss him a pleasant Goodnight to indicate you’re done with this conversation.

Sylus draws in a slow inhale. Follows it with a loud exhale. “All right, then.” As soon as the words are out, the cushion dips, and the firm press of his much taller, much broader frame slots in behind you.

“Wh— Sylus!”

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him to stop your flailing. “You’re right,” he murmurs against the nape of your neck, too wry for his own good. “This is comfortable.”

“You’re impossible,” you grumble, though you’re secretly grateful for the familiarity of the way your bodies fit together. Unless he’s out on business or you’re in the field, the two of you don’t sleep apart. Ever.

“And you’re stubborn.” He hugs you closer. “But where you go, I go.”

This man. “You are so nauseatingly romantic sometimes,” you say, half scolding him and half praising him.

“Mmm, I’ve been told it’s one of my finer qualities.” He shifts around a bit until his limbs are thoroughly tangled with yours, then he sneaks a chaste kiss to the crown of your head. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

“And I didn’t realize you’d be here. Is everything okay?”

“Peachy,” he says, tight-lipped, and forces a smile onto his face. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?” And just like that, his tone turns bubbly. Familiar. But as he stands, you can’t help but notice that his posture seems overly stiff.

Maybe you should send Sylus away. Clearly Caleb was wanting to have a private conversation. “I…”

Caleb’s gaze flicks between you and Sylus, expectant.

You knew this day would come, of course, when the two of them crossed paths. You just didn’t think it would be today. “Caleb, this is… um…” What should you even say? Do you introduce Sylus as your boyfriend? As Skye? As an informant? Would Caleb even buy that last one?

Before you can decide on the least damaging course of action, Sylus reaches past you, extending his hand toward Caleb in greeting, and says, “Sylus.”

You blink, stunned by his honesty. And then you panic. What if Caleb knows that name? What if Caleb knows about the warrant?

“I take it you’re the one she was grieving for months on end?” Sylus continues, his eyes—slightly narrowed—dipping to the insignia on Caleb’s uniform. “Colonel, is it? You look good for a dead guy.”

Caleb’s gaze jumps to you— confusion mingled with hurt. “You told him?” he says softly. Disbelievingly.

Ah, hell. According to official records, Caleb was dead and buried— Fleet secrets and all.

Before you can explain, he lets out a sigh and turns his attention back to Sylus. Reaffixes his smile. “Doesn’t matter. If she trusts you, I trust you.”

Sylus takes his hand back and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Aww, I’m touched.”

You have got to talk to Sylus about his penchant for kicking the hornet’s nest.

Thankfully, Caleb ignores the quip. “As you can see”—he gestures to himself—“I’m not dead. And Caleb will do just fine.”

“You sure about that?” Sylus says pointedly, an arch in his brow. “I know how you military brats love your titles.”

You smack his arm. “Sylus.”

He responds with a subdued chuckle— the same one he lets out whenever one of his business partners tries to fuck him over during a negotiation. “Oh, I’m sure just Caleb can handle a little good-natured teasing, kitten.”

“Kitten, huh?” Caleb looks Sylus up and down, a note of distaste souring his too-cordial smile. “So you’re the guy who’s fucking my sister.”

“Caleb, oh my God—”

“It’s all right, sweetie.” Sylus seems unbothered— amused, even. His smirk deepens a bit as he shifts his weight and tips his head back. Assessing. “I’d be bitter too if I let you slip through my fingers.”

Caleb’s brows shoot up. “Sorry?”

You have a similar reaction, mouth dropping open and eyes going wide at the implication in Sylus’s statement. Has he lost his damn mind? You haven’t told Sylus much about Caleb, but Sylus knows the two of you grew up together.

“I liked you better when you were taking shots,” Sylus says. “Playing dumb doesn’t suit you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Sylus folds his arms. “Those shrinks at the Academy left some rather interesting notes in your file about a certain, shall we say, fixation you have on—”

“Watch it,” Caleb snarls.

Wait— Academy shrinks? From when Caleb was going through flight school? Did Sylus run a fucking background check on Caleb? Who are you kidding, of course he did.

“Or what?” Sylus taunts, and you realize too late that he’s trying to provoke Caleb. “Gonna throw me in the brig… Colonel?”

That does it.

Caleb strikes first, lashing out with his Evol, but Sylus is quick to counter, and then the two of them are locked in a stalemate, the floorboards groaning under the press of Caleb’s gravity and Sylus’s energy whipping through the air like a live wire. You’ve never actually seen Caleb turn the full force of his Evol on someone, and the sight is both breathtaking and terrifying— the way the world itself seems to want to bend a knee for him. How long has he been able to do this?

Sylus grins, though his hands are shaking with the effort to contain Caleb’s outburst. “That little trick won’t work on me, pup. But nice try.”

The area around them is turning volatile, and a pressurized bolt of their combined Evols ricochets off the faucet and shatters a mug you left in the sink. If this keeps up, they’re going to tear your place apart.

“Enough!” you shout and move to wedge yourself between them, desperate to put an end to this ridiculous spat. And maybe it’s your voice, or maybe it’s your nearness, but they both dismiss their Evols and stagger several steps backward, panting.

At least they’re alive.

But what an unmitigated disaster.

You whirl on Sylus. “What has gotten into you?” Throughout your scolding, his gaze remains locked on Caleb, that polite veneer of diplomacy gone. Regardless of what Caleb is to you, Sylus has categorized him as a threat. And you know exactly how Sylus tends to deal with those. “Caleb and I are family. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

Sylus glances down at you, and whatever he sees must disarm him because he looks back at Caleb, cocks his head, and says, “She doesn’t know, does she?”

“Know what?” you ask. When Sylus doesn’t answer, you turn halfway to face Caleb. His jaw is set and he’s glaring daggers at Sylus, but there’s no mistaking the guilt in his expression— the same flavor of shame as whenever Gran used to catch him in a lie. “Know what?” you say again, an accusation this time, the wobble gone from your voice as your brows pinch together.

Silence unfurls between the three of you, sticky and unpleasant. Caleb’s throat bobs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze. Just continues glaring at Sylus.

“It seems you two need to have a chat,” Sylus finally says, then slides his hand along your jaw and drops a kiss on the side of your head. As his lips are pressed against your hair, he adds a whispered, “I’ll call you later.”

An urge to protest bubbles up inside you. This is not how your evening was supposed to go. “But…”

“We’ll reschedule,” comes Sylus’s reply, and then he’s leaving— gathering up his coat and slipping out the door.

You turn to Caleb, equal measures annoyed and baffled. Whatever patience you might have afforded him has been burned through, courtesy of him wrecking your plans on the first night off you’ve had in two weeks. “Talk,” you order.

The years have been kind to him, enhancing his already handsome features. Apart from the dusting of black hairs at his temples and the creases at the corners of his eyes, he looks the same as he did three decades ago. You, on the other hand, wear every last one of your fifty-six years. Wrinkles. Greys. Age spots that even the most expensive creams can’t seem to lighten.

And you’re grateful for all of it, for the miracle of getting to grow old with the person you love.

Sylus reaches the edge of the bed and, before you can roll to safety, bends at the waist to capture your lips in a languid kiss.

You squeal and shove at his chest, but he just leans more of his weight onto you. “Stoppp,” you manage, twisting your head to the side. “You’re going to get me wet.”

“Oh no,” he says, wry and unrepentant as he redirects his attention to your neck. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Sylus,” you whine, giggling despite your half-hearted attempt to squirm out of his hold. It’s useless— he’s got you caged. “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

Sylus’s lips curve into a smirk as he presses a kiss beneath your jaw. “What meeting?”

“You”—you push him toward the closet—“are going to be late.”

With a groan, he gives in, though he pilfers one more kiss, seemingly intent on leaving you flustered and wanting. Unsurprisingly, his ploy is a raving success, and as you gaze after him, your heart thudding in your chest, you’re captivated by the shift of his muscles as he works a pair of briefs over his hips.

Maybe there’s enough time to call him back to bed…

You can be quick, probably.

Before you can act on the idea, he dips into the closet, and you’re finally granted a reprieve from your baser instincts. As he rustles about—no doubt shrugging on a suit—your pulse evens out and the heat fades from your cheeks.

“When will you be back?” you ask, suddenly curious to know how soon the two of you can pick up where you left off.

“If things go smoothly? Midnight.”

“And if they don’t?”

Sylus emerges from the closet with his dress shirt still hanging open, his hair perfectly coiffed, and not a drop of water left on his entire body. Perks of an energy manipulation Evol. “Within the hour, I’d imagine.” As he speaks, he does up one cufflink and then the other. “Though I’d likely have to spend the rest of the night cleaning up the mess.”

And wouldn’t that be an unfortunate thing. “Then I hope things go smoothly,” you say, tipping your chin up in demand of a parting gift.

Sylus finds his way back to the bed and leans into your space, slow, his fists pushing dents in the mattress as his eyes skip over your features. “As”—a kiss to your forehead—“do”—a kiss to your cheek—“I,” he whispers and finally presses his lips to yours. It’s a gentle thing. Chaste, even.

Until it’s not.

Until he’s licking into your mouth, a moan on his cinnamon-flavored breath.

Until his tongue is sliding against yours and his hand is cupping the nape of your neck and the scent of his freshly applied cologne—amber and vanilla and woodsmoke—is making your head spin.

But then he pulls back, a sheen on his lips and a darkness in his gaze, and you bunch your hands in the sheets to keep from reaching for him, from yanking him into the bed with you and peeling off that perfectly pressed suit. “Hurry back,” you say, still a bit breathless.

You twist around to face him, and he begrudgingly allows it. “Zayne...” Your gaze anxiously flicks to the door, blood rushing to your face as your body readily responds to his advances, unexpected as they are. “You’re at work.”

He brushes a thumb across your cheek. “And?”

You fumble with the start of a sentence a few times before you manage to say, “Someone could walk in.”

Without taking his eyes off you, Zayne extends an arm toward the door, and frost blooms across the handle as the squeaking crunch of ice fixes the metal lock in place. He tilts his head, hand cool when it returns to your waist, brows slightly raised as he patiently awaits your next objection. Then his leg slots between your thighs, and you stumble backward half a step. Bump into his desk.

Your hands instinctively grip the edge for balance, but he’s got you pinned. You couldn’t fall even if you tried. “Someone could hear.”

The corner of his mouth tics up in amusement. “Are you asking for a gag?” He reaches for his tie, loosening it with a lazy tug before it slides free. He tosses it behind you and undoes the top button of his collared shirt, and then his hands are back on you, inching up your thighs, rucking up your dress.

“I...” You’re finding it hard to think with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s looking at you— so intent it verges on arrogance, the ravenous glint in his eyes making heat pool low in your gut. You grasp at his pristine lab coat, crinkling the material, unsure of whether you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer.

Zayne hooks his fingers into your underwear, and he strips you in one fluid motion, his normally even-tempered expression awash with such primal conviction that it leaves you breathless.

“I just dropped by to bring you lunch,” you say weakly.

Zayne kneels, the green of his eyes sharp and clear as he guides one of your legs over his shoulder. “And so you have.”

He licks into you with practiced restraint, tongue hot and wet and smooth as he drags it through your folds. You sigh, a hand tangling in his hair as you let your head tip back and resign yourself to the change in plans. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.

Zayne knows your body— knows what you like, knows what you need, knows the precise amount of pressure and speed and intensity to use to have you coming apart at the seams, a panting, pleasure-drunk mess that would do anything—say anything—to earn your release, and he has you mewling and grinding against his chin in precious little time.

The sound of knuckles rapping against a door reaches your ears, followed by a voice, tenuous but cordial: “Dr. Li?”

You fail to choke back a pathetic squeak, and Zayne raises his head to fix you with a reproving look. He replaces his mouth with his hand, sinking two fingers into you as he swipes his thumb over your clit.

You hold your breath to keep from moaning.

Another bout of knocking. “I’d, uh, like a word,” the man says, voice muffled by the (thankfully) thick layer of wood. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Zayne drags his lips along your inner thigh, kissing but not. Teasing but not. “It is, actually.”

From the hallway, the man clears his throat. “I don’t think we should be—”

“Is someone dying?”

A pause. “Well, no. But—”

“Then I’m indisposed at the moment.” Zayne crooks his fingers inside you just so, and you push out a sharp, silent breath, tensing your hand against his scalp in a frantic attempt to hold in a whine.

“I understand you’re upset,” the man continues, oblivious, “but I was hoping we could discuss—”

“I’ll come find you when I’m free again, Director.” Zayne wields the title like a weapon— a show of respect that’s as cutting as it is final.

“Very well,” the director eventually replies, clearly unsatisfied with how this interaction played out. “I’ll be in Neuro.”

Zayne feathers his jaw before he returns his attention to your clit, harshly sucking it into his mouth as he pumps his fingers into you with renewed vigor. Your stomach muscles contract almost painfully with the effort to maintain your silence, but you hold out for a few more seconds—just long enough for the director to walk out of earshot—and then a whimper finally claws its way free.

But now you’re curious. “Was that Director P—”

“Do not let another man’s name cross your lips right now,” Zayne warns, pulling back enough to glare up at you, a brow raised in displeasure even as his chin glistens with your slickness.

Before you can respond, he resumes his work, tongue and fingers beating out a frenzied rhythm that chases away any hope of coherent thought. And then you’re balanced so perfectly on the precipice of bliss, suspended in the grip of a second that lasts an hour, begging for the gentle, rapturous mercy of release please, yes, just like that—

“Come.” His voice vibrates against you, and that does it.

Your orgasm crests like a wave— a powerful, roiling thing that sweeps through your veins, little eddies of pleasure catching and swirling and enduring. Zayne tugs you closer, groaning as he works you through it, hand denting your thigh with how tightly he clings to you.

Gradually, the near-unbearable pleasure transforms into rippling aftershocks, and the muscles in your legs and torso and arms spasm as your pulse slows. As your breaths calm.

When you blink Zayne back into focus, he’s limned in gold.

Only, it’s not gold— it’s the glow of resonance, and it clings to him like a second skin.

Panic surges through you. “Did I hurt y—”

“I’m fine,” he says, an honest smile bowing his lips. He presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, seemingly amused by your concern. “Never felt better, actually.”

There’s no sating him after that. 

He bullies four more out of you, each time drinking up your release like it’s honeyed medicine, and maybe it is, you realize. But when he seems determined to go for another—your trembling thighs and throbbing cunt be damned—you finally protest.

“Zayne, please—” You’re laid out on his desk, sweaty and writhing and unable to escape his clever tongue. “Please, I can’t.”

He pulls back to look up at you, gaze soft and adoring, the tension that so recently haunted his frame all but gone. “Shall I stop?” he asks, but your fate has already been sealed.

He needs this. He needs this, and you are desperate to give it to him.

So you shake your head.

“Always so good for me,” he whispers, a note of wonder in his tone, and the praise alone has you hungry for more. “Now tell me what you need.”

“Need you— ah!” You gasp as he flicks his tongue across your clit. “Need you inside me.”

His plush lips soothe the sting of overstimulation. “Is that all?” he murmurs.

You moan, sick at the beauty of him like this, on his knees for you, so worshipful and devoted that it steals your breath. So tender in the way he brings you to ruin again and again and again. “Please fuck me, Zayne.”

He smiles against you. “One more, baby.” His fingers thrust gently into you as he presses a kiss to your swollen clit. “One more and I’ll let you have my cock.”

You make a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re going to be the death of me,” you mutter.

Zayne works you back to a fever pitch with ease, his hands and mouth moving in blessed harmony, and you come undone on a whine, keening for him like a songbird. Perhaps you should exercise a bit more discretion, but, truth be told, you’re long past caring whether or not your sounds filter through his office door.

“Such a good girl,” Zayne says, kissing his way up your body. He noses your cardigan aside to suck a mark into your collarbone, and you whimper. “Would you like your reward now?”

You hum contentedly and nod, limbs loose and pliant as he turns you over so that your stomach is flat against his desk.

Behind you, Zayne unbuckles his belt and hikes your skirts over your hips, palm smoothing over your ass before he notches himself against your entrance. He curves his body over yours and plants a hand beside your head. And then he’s sinking into you, inch by terrible inch, the thick stretch of his cock burning like a branding iron.

You swallow a whine and try to stay relaxed. You’ve earned this, and you’d rather die than tap out now.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, touching his lips to the nape of your neck as he finally bottoms out, and the warmth of his hips against your ass is better than any trophy. He stays like that for a moment, statue-still save for the way the muscles in his thighs twitch. So controlled, even now. Just when you’re about to beg, he asks, “Ready for more?”

Your response is a swift and needy Yes, and Zayne lets out an amused huff before he starts in with slow, deep strokes to open you up. He’s patient and methodical—torturously so—but he’s also achingly hard, the ridge at the head of his cock dragging against your sweet spot each time he pulls back.

It’s too much and not enough, and you attempt to meet thrusts, all but rabid for more.

He groans, one hand clamping down on your hip like a vise. “Be patient for me, baby,” he says, voice tight, tempo unbroken. “Let me make you feel good.”

And oh, this is excruciating. 

You peel your arm off the desk and try to wedge it between your thighs—try to give yourself what you need most—but Zayne spots your ploy from a mile away and pins both of your wrists above your head. “In a rush, are we?”

Tremors wrack your limbs, and were it not for Zayne’s grip on you, you’d crumple. “Pl-Please stop— ah— playing with me,” you beg.

He nuzzles the spot just beneath your ear, shallow breaths stirring your hair. “Now why would I do that when you make such pretty noises?”

You moan, and the coil in your gut winds tighter.

“Can you hear how slick you are?” he asks, picking up his pace to show just how right he is. The wet slap of your bodies is utterly obscene in his quiet, sterile office.

A pitiful sort of warbling sound catches in your throat, and you weakly try to twist your hands free of Zayne’s hold. You need to grab onto something— need to brace yourself.

“You’re taking me so well,” he says, hips snapping against yours hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, the glide of his cock so perfect it’s almost punishing.

You’re too far gone to be self-conscious, and all you can do is whine out his name.

“Mmm, I think I like you like this,” he says, finally releasing your wrists, “bent over my desk and moaning.”

You don’t have time to steel yourself before his fingers find your clit, and the burst of contact has you scrabbling for purchase— clawing at the desk, arching your back.

Zayne molds his palm against your scalp and tugs. Brings your ear to his mouth. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers, and you do— short, sharp pants morphing into a high-pitched squeal as you unravel, shaking and shivering and euphoric.

He fucks you through it, but just barely, spilling inside you with a muffled groan as his hips finally, mercifully still, cock pulsing and buried so deep that it hurts. And then he angles your head so that he can slant his mouth over yours, kissing you slow and sweet.

You moan, clenching softly on his half-hard length, and he goes rigid, grunting as he pushes his hips more firmly against yours.

“You’re incredible,” he says, lips still pressed to yours.

You want to tell him the same, but you’re so spent that you can’t bring yourself to do more than hum and grin up at him with a dopey, half-lidded expression.

Zayne holds you close a moment longer, then carefully lays you back down so he can tidy up. After wiping you both off, he helps you step back into your underwear. It’s a slow affair, and he presses a kiss to the outside of your thigh before he pulls the scrap of cotton up and over your hips. As a parting gift, while he’s fixing the draping of your dress, he sneaks in a roguish smack to your ass that startles a squeak out of you. Then he tends to himself.

When you finally manage to push yourself into a half-standing position, he’s buckling his belt and futilely trying to smooth out the newly acquired wrinkles in his dress shirt.

You grab his tie and beckon him toward you, turning so you can lean against the edge of his desk. He immediately complies, a subdued smile bowing his lips as he steps between your legs and bends so that you can loop the tie around his neck.

“Hungry?” he asks, gaze dipping to your lips before it tracks back to your eyes.

You freeze, cheeks heating. “What?”

Zayne’s smile deepens and then he pulls back a bit. “You said you dropped by to bring me lunch. Have you eaten yet?”

You do up the top button of his collar and align the ends of the tie so it’ll fall in the way he likes. “No, but—”

“Then let’s make a date of it,” he says, perching a hand on your hip, and you resolutely focus on tying the correct type of knot as his thumb rubs small, enticing circles into your waist. “There’s a new bistro across the street I’ve been wanting to try.”

You finish your task and slide the knot up so that it sits at the base of his throat. “Don’t you need to meet with Director Pa—” Zayne’s eyes flash, and you bite down on the rest of the name. “The director,” you say instead, rubbing your palms up and down his chest by way of an apology.

Zayne covers one of your hands with his and gives it a gentle squeeze. Sighing, he steps away from you and toward the door, pausing at the coat rack to exchange his lab coat for his overcoat. Once he’s clipped his name tag to the lapel, he extends a hand in your direction. “The director can wait a bit longer.”

Well then. Who are you to argue?

The moment you’re within striking distance, Zayne lands an affectionate peck on your cheek, then ushers you into the hallway, and then the two of you are off.

The bistro is nice— inventive and unique without being pretentious. As always, Zayne has a knack for picking the best places to eat.

After, when you try to bid him goodbye, he laces his hand with yours, and just like that, lunch turns into ice cream turns into an afternoon stroll turns into him kissing you breathless in the elevator up to your apartment. He’s impatient as you punch in the code at your place, nibbling at your neck as you mix up the numbers once, twice, and then third time’s a charm, a relieved groan sticking in his throat when the bolt finally clicks free.

As soon as you’re over the threshold, he hauls you into his arms and takes you against the back of the door, scarcely remembering to lock it before he pushes into you.

You come apart with distressing speed, the overwhelming size of him nearly splitting you in half, and then he relocates you both to the couch— delicately settles you on top of him so that your legs bracket his hips. He offers you a reprieve in the form of languid kisses at your jaw, your throat, your breasts, but soon enough, you come back to life, and he keeps a hand at your waist to urge you on as you grind down on him in the way he likes best.

Your gaze snaps to his, those sunset-colored eyes wide and searching. He’s always been attractive, but right now, battered and filthy and holding you close, he’s devastating. Irresistible. And you have to have him.

Have to taste him.

Ravenous, you lean in for a kiss, but he jerks back, halting you with a hand at your shoulder and a startled Woah.

His voice snaps you out of whatever trance you were in, and shame rushes in, cold and sour. “Gege, I— I don’t know what came ov— ah—” You’re interrupted by a spike of need so intense that it makes you fold forward, makes your vision fog over, all white and splotchy.

Caleb says something, concern lacing his tone, but you can’t make out the words.

What on earth is happ—

Oh.

Oh no.

The wanderer you were fighting— it must’ve been infected.

You try to recall what the Epidemiology division shared during last month’s briefing. Ugh, why don’t you pay better attention during those things? Something about a novel zoonotic virus showing up in berserk wanderers? The details are fuzzy, but the lead researcher’s warning solidifies into a haunting echo: “If you come across one, avoid contact with any of its biological matter.”

So it probably doesn’t bode well that you just inhaled half of one’s corpse.

As your thoughts spiral, Caleb stifles a phlegmy cough, and the reality of your situation settles in your gut like a lodestone. His lungs are full of the same particulate as yours.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You see it the moment the toxin takes effect— the way his pupils dilate, the way a flush creeps into his cheeks, the way he shivers like a winter breeze just snuck beneath his jacket.

“Caleb, lis-listen to me.” Your throat is so horribly dry. “I think we’ve been infected.”

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “Call it in.”

“We’re too far out. Protocol is—”

“I said,” he bites out, practically ripping his hands off you and balling them into fists, “call for an evac and then get the hell away from me.”

If only it were that simple. “Caleb, this fever will fry our brains before anyone can make it to us.”

He cracks one eye open, followed by the other, his brows pinched together and a bead of sweat sliding down his temple as he peers at you through his lashes. “You know what this is?” he asks, raspy, like he’s dragging the words through gravel.

You nod. “Frenzy mutation.” You need to kiss him. Need to know the rhythm of his body as it moves in tandem with yours. “New strain.”

Caleb rolls onto all fours and then staggers to his feet. Takes heavy, uneven steps toward the big tree that’s a dozen paces away. “Then we need to— to get back to headquarters. Your superiors will—”

“Will just pair us up with other Hunters to fuck,” you say, cutting him off, and the thought of someone else serving as a cocksleeve for Caleb—your Caleb—is almost enough to make you snarl.

The instant the words leave your mouth, he whips his head around to glare at you, a storm raging behind too-dark eyes. “What?”

There’s something comforting about the fact that he seems as opposed to that idea as you are. “That’s the cure,” you say sharply, whimpering as you stand. It’s like your muscles are on fire, like you’re being flensed with a forge-hot blade.

Maybe in the future, the Association’s finest will synthesize an antidote, but for now, the advised ‘treatment’ is to obey the animalistic urges the toxin conjures up— to feed it with the bodily fluids it so craves until it’s sated. At best, the consequence of not doing so is seizures, but death is the far more likely outcome.

You need to make Caleb understand.

He’ll give in if he understands.

For as long as you can remember, he’s had a compulsive need to help you— to make things better. To ease your suffering if not prevent it entirely. There’s no way he’ll break that streak today.

…Right?

Caleb shakes off your words like he’s flinging water out of his hair and then resumes his labored trek toward the tree. When he makes it there, he pitches forward and catches himself against the trunk, one hand grasping at the bark, the other hanging limp at his side. He’s so deliciously broad. So toned. So built for fucking.

God, you want to ride him until your thighs give out.

Caleb lets his head drop forward. “Then we’ll go to a— a doctor—”

“Who will put us in induced comas until our hormone levels stabilize.” As you speak, you close on him and unbuckle your belt, an unbearable heat curdling beneath your skin. The way he’s panting is making your vision crowd with black. He should be making those noises because of you— because he’s buried to the hilt in your cunt, not because he’s mulishly clinging to some damned sense of chivalry.

“Fine by me,” he mutters.

A scream knocks against the back of your teeth, but instead, voice laced with venom, you say, “Of all the times to be a prude—”

Caleb barks out a laugh and glares at you over the swell of his shoulder. “Pips, I am trying to prevent us from doing something you’ll regret once you’re sober.”

“Regret?” You scoff. “Caleb, I have wanted you since I understood what it meant to want.” The admission catches you by surprise, but it’s not a lie. It’s just that up until two seconds ago, it was a secret you’d intended to take to your grave.

“You don’t—” He swallows. Shakes his head. “You don’t mean that.”

Typical Caleb. Telling you what you do or don’t mean, what you can or can’t do. “Oh?” you say, drenched in sweat and fed about as far up as you’ve ever been. “Then why do I think of you every time I touch mys—”

“Stop talking.” His hand that’s pressed against the tree tenses, little bits of bark flaking off and falling to the ground.

Mmm, there he is. There’s the Caleb that wants you just as badly as you want him— the one who’d rather tear out his still-beating heart than ruin things between the two of you. But maybe some things are meant to be ruined. Maybe that’s the only way to fashion something better.

“Sometimes,” you say, struggling to get the words out with the way your skull feels like it’s about to split open, “I’ll loop your voice notes so I can hear you talking to me while I—”

He’s on you before you can finish the thought, his fingers clamping around your jaw as he wraps you in his gravity. You moan.

Yes.

God, yes.

More— you need more.

Caleb fixes you with a reproving glare, but where there should be disdain, there’s only desire. “Stop. Talking.”

You chuckle, reveling in the victory. “That’s it,” you taunt, your skin tingling hotly beneath his fingers. “Teach me a lesson.”

“Always such a brat,” he says, teeth clenched, and it sounds like a compliment. “Always seeing how far you can push me before I snap.”

When his scent hits you, you all but black out. “Is that… your way of saying… that I need to… push you further?” You finish off your quip with a dopey grin, delirious with need, and his eyes flash.

Then you’re sailing forward, toes dragging against the dirt until your chest smacks into the tree.

“You want my cock so bad?” There’s a mocking edge to Caleb’s tone as he slots himself behind you. “Fine.” In one smooth motion, he tugs your pants and underwear partway down your thighs and notches himself against your entrance, his voice rough with need when he says, “It’s all yours.” And then he slams into you in one harsh, searing thrust.

You gasp, euphoric, your world erupting in a riot of sensations as the pain of the stretch wars with the sweet relief of being filled. It’s terrible. It’s glorious.

And it’s not enough.

Behind you, Caleb trembles but otherwise remains still, his hips pressed flush to yours in some masochistic, infuriatingly noble act of restraint.

You groan. “Caleb, move.”

His response is a breathy laugh, followed swiftly by compliance.

By giving you exactly what you asked for and then some.

By rutting against you so perfectly that all you can do is moan, his fingers digging into your hips as he punches the air from your lungs.

“After this,” he says between grunts, his Evol holding you fast as he pounds into you with ruthless desperation, “we are going home.” He snakes one of his hands between your thighs. “I am making you dinner.” His fingers light on your clit, and a whole cosmos erupts behind your eyes. “And then we are doing this properly.”

Properly. The thought pulls a choppy laugh out of out. “What, gonna— nngh— get me flowers?”

“Mmm,” he agrees, tentatively circling a finger around your clit, “so I did.” With his other hand, he grasps your jaw and turns your head to the side. Stamps a line of kisses down your neck.

As always, Rafayel takes his time with you, stoking a slow-building desire that has your eyes fluttering shut, has your chest heaving, has moans catching in your throat. The play of his fingers and the heat of his breaths are enough to get you rocking your hips and begging for more, but he simply lets you writhe, unhurried in his mission, and palms one of your breasts.

“Ayel…”

He hums and rolls your nipple between his fingers.

“Need more,” you whine.

“Careful what you ask for, cutie.” His lips are soft against your jaw even as evidence of his own arousal presses firmly against the small of your back. “I might just decide to listen.” And with that, he slips two fingers inside you.

You groan at the same time he does, aching with relief— and then burning with a need to be filled properly, to be stretched around his cock, to take him deep and keep him there. He wants the same—you know he does—but, unlike you, he is cruelly, endlessly patient. And if he gets his way, you’ll surely be a blubbering, pleasure-dumb mess by the time he decides to put you out of your misery.

So you take matters into your own hands.

Before Rafayel can pin you in place, you twist and straddle his lap, and though you lose the sweet curl of his fingers, you gain the heft of his cock, its thick, warm weight pressing against your cunt as water sloshes over the rim of the tub.

Rafayel gazes up at you with a lust-heavy expression, a pretty pink flush staining the high points of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. In the dim, silvery light of the waxing crescent moon, his eyes gleam like gemstones. “Just couldn’t wait, huh?” His tone verges on smug, but his breaths are ragged and his pupils are dilated.

In response, you shake your head and grind yourself along his length, savoring the friction on your clit and the moan that swells in his chest, resonant as whalesong.