Not Until You’re Ready

Tsar Vaelin "The Iron Tsar" Volkov

I woke with her body pressed flush against mine, the heat of her skin searing through the thin sheet that had tangled around us sometime in the night. Her back curved into my chest, the soft weight of her breasts rising and falling with each quiet breath. One of my arms was locked around her waist, the other trapped beneath her head. The scent of her—sweat, arousal, and that faint trace of wildflowers she always carried—filled my lungs and made my cock harden against the cleft of her ass before I was fully awake.

Last night’s training had ended in chaos. She had pushed herself until her legs shook, until the runes I had forced her to hold burned white-hot against her palms. I had meant only to steady her when she stumbled. Instead I had pulled her against me, and she had kissed me like she was drowning. We had not made it to the bed. The floor, the wall, the edge of the table. I still felt the bruises. We had stopped short of the final act, both of us gasping, both of us terrified of what would happen if I lost control. I had carried her here, told myself I would leave before dawn. I had failed.

She stirred. A soft sound left her throat as she shifted, pressing back into me. My hand slid lower of its own accord, splaying across the flat of her stomach. I felt the tremor that ran through her when the head of my cock nudged between her thighs. She was already wet. The knowledge hit me like a fist.

I should have pulled away. The curse lived under my skin, a black hunger that grew stronger every time I touched her. Her training was nowhere near complete. If I took her fully, if I let the Lycan part of me claim her, the darkness could spill into her before she had the strength to fight it. I knew this. I had repeated it to myself a hundred times since the night I first scented her.

Yet my hips rolled forward. The thick length of me slid through her folds, coating myself in her slick heat. She moaned, low and broken, and the sound shattered whatever restraint I still clung to. I adjusted the angle, found her entrance, and pushed inside in one slow, relentless thrust.

She was tight. Impossibly so. Her body clenched around me as if it had been waiting for this exact invasion. A guttural sound tore from my chest. I buried my face in the curve of her neck and breathed her in while I seated myself to the root. Her fingers dug into the arm I kept locked around her waist. Another moan spilled from her lips, softer this time, almost pleading.

I stayed still for several heartbeats, letting her adjust, letting myself feel every pulse of her around me. The slow burn of it was torture. My cock throbbed deep inside her, the heavy vein along the underside pressed against her inner walls. I could feel how she fluttered, how she tried to pull me deeper even though there was nowhere left to go.

When I finally moved it was with deliberate care. A slow withdrawal until only the head remained, then a measured thrust that filled her again. She gasped. Her leg shifted, giving me better access, and I took it. I kept the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent. Each stroke dragged against the sensitive place inside her that made her breath hitch. I felt every tremor, every involuntary squeeze of her pussy around my length.

This was nothing like the frantic need of the night before. This was something else. Something that reached into the hollow places inside me and threatened to fill them. I kissed the side of her throat, open-mouthed, tasting the salt of her skin. My free hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing the tight peak until she arched into the touch. She turned her head enough that our mouths met in a messy, desperate kiss. I swallowed her moans as I fucked her with long, rolling strokes.

The wet sound of our bodies joining filled the quiet room. I felt the first warning pulse of climax building at the base of my spine and forced it back. Not yet. I wanted her to come first. I wanted to feel her break apart around me while I was still buried deep. My hand left her breast and slid between her thighs, finding the swollen bud of her clit. I circled it with two fingers in time with my thrusts. Her body jerked. A broken cry left her lips.

“Vaelin.”

My name on her tongue nearly undid me. I pressed harder, fucked her deeper, and felt the exact moment her orgasm took her. Her pussy clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking my cock with greedy force. She shook in my arms. I held her through it, teeth gritted against the urge to follow her over the edge.

When the last tremor faded I could no longer hold back. I drove into her twice more, buried to the hilt, and came with a low, tortured groan. Thick pulses of seed flooded her, hot and endless. I kept thrusting through it, shallow and helpless, until the last drop left me.

For several long seconds I stayed inside her, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breathing hard. The aftershocks still fluttered around my softening cock. She felt perfect. She felt like home. And that was exactly why I had to leave.

I pulled out with careful reluctance. The loss of her heat was immediate and brutal. Seed spilled from her as I shifted back, painting her inner thighs. She made a soft sound of protest and reached for me, but I was already sitting up, already putting distance between us.

The curse stirred beneath my skin the moment I left her body. A dark, oily sensation rolled through my veins, hungry for more. I looked down at my hands. The runic tattoos that marked my arms—normally a dull silver—had begun to darken at the edges. Black veins spidered outward from the ink. I clenched my fists and forced the change back down.

She rolled onto her back, watching me. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from my kisses. The sheet had slipped to her waist, leaving her breasts bare. I could see the marks I had left on her throat and collarbone. She looked thoroughly claimed. The sight made my cock twitch again despite everything.

“Come back,” she whispered.

I shook my head. The words tasted like ash. “I can’t. Not again. Not until you’re ready.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am ready.”

“You’re not.” I stood, reached for the discarded trousers on the floor, and pulled them on with jerky movements. “The training isn’t finished. If I lose control. If the curse takes root in you before you can fight it.”

“Then teach me faster.” She sat up, the sheet pooling around her hips. There was fire in her voice now, the same stubborn heat that had drawn me to her from the beginning. “Don’t you dare pull away after that.”

I turned my back on her because looking at her was dangerous. My hands shook as I fastened the laces of my trousers. The black hunger under my skin whispered that I should return to the bed, pin her down, and take her until neither of us could think. I ignored it.

“Rest,” I said, voice rough. “We resume training at dusk. No more distractions.”

I left the chamber before she could answer. The corridor outside was cool and empty. I leaned against the stone wall and pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. The taste of her still lingered on my tongue. The memory of how she had clenched around me when she came would not leave.

I had told myself I could keep the distance. I had lied.

By the time night fell again I had driven myself through hours of sword forms and rune work until my muscles burned. The black veins on my arms had receded, but the hunger remained. I avoided the training hall where I knew she would be waiting. Instead I went to the private bath chamber beneath the east wing, the one fed by the hot springs. Steam rose from the large stone pool as I stripped and stepped into the water.

The heat did nothing to ease the tension coiling low in my gut. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. It was impossible. Every time I blinked I saw her face as she came, heard the broken way she had said my name.

I did not hear the door open.

When I opened my eyes she was standing at the edge of the pool, fully clothed, arms crossed. The steam curled around her like a living thing. Her gaze dropped to the water, to the places where the surface broke over my bare chest and lower. Then her eyes locked on my left arm where it rested along the stone rim.

The runic tattoos were glowing.

Black light pulsed beneath the skin, slow and sickly, spreading further than it had that morning. I had not noticed. The curse had advanced while I sat here thinking of her.

Her voice was quiet, but it carried.

“Tell me the truth, Vaelin. Right now. What is happening to you?”