Page 93 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Surrendered,” he murmurs against my hair, his breath warm and intimate. His lips brush my temple, then trail down to my ear. “Trusting.” A kiss to the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes my knees weaken. “Mine.” The word rumbles through his chest into my back, a claim and a promise wrapped together.

He slides the fabric down with reverent slowness, his palms skimming along my thighs. The sensation of being gradually revealed, cool air kissing newly exposed skin, his hands mapping territory claimed countless times—yet explored with wonder—sends heat flooding through me. I step out of the garment, now completely bare in the candlelight. He remains fully clothed behind me. The imbalance is deliberate, I know—it’s part of his careful orchestration of this anniversary gift.

Vulnerability and power intertwine. My nakedness makes me feel both exposed and worshipped.

His hands slide down my sides with aching tenderness. He reads my body like blueprints he’s memorized over years of careful study. Every dip and curve, every place that makes me gasp or sigh, he knows. His fingers trace my spine, counting vertebrae. Then his hands spread across my lower back, thumbs pressing into muscles just enough to make me melt into his touch.

"To the bed," he directs. His palm, warm and commanding, presses against my lower back to guide me forward with gentle insistence. Moving, my legs feel unsteady; I'm hyper-aware of my nakedness and his gaze that tracks every sway of my hips. The sheets, cool and silken against my heated skin, make me shiver as I lie down. I turn to face him—he stands at the bedside, still fully dressed, his eyes drinking in every inch of me with unabashed hunger that makes my breath catch.

The way he looks at me—like I’m something both precious and profane—never fails to ignite something primal in me. His gaze travels slowly: first from my flushed face, then down my throat; he lingers on my breasts, their nipples peaked, before drifting along my stomach and stopping where my thighs press together in modesty. I watch his jaw tighten. I see his hands flex at his sides, as though restraining himself from simply pouncing.

His clothes disappear with efficient movements that speak of barely leashed desire, buttons surrendering quickly, fabric discarded without ceremony. Each revealed inch of him makes my mouth go dry. The lean muscle beneath pale skin, scattered with scars that tell the story of a life spent in protection. The defined lines of his abdomen that I’ve traced with tongue and fingers more times than I can count. The evidence of his arousal, thick and ready, makes heat pool between my thighs, and my inner muscles clench in anticipation.

When he finally joins me on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his body covers mine with delicious pressure. Skin against skin, the heat of him seeping into me, the solid weight of muscle and bone pressing me into the silk sheets. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that starts gentle, a soft brush of lips, a tender exploration, but quickly ignites into something fiercer, more demanding. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, tasting, and I open for him eagerly, my hands sliding up his back to feel the flex of muscle beneath warm skin.

“Happy anniversary,” I whisper against his lips when we break for air, both of us breathing hard. His answering smile holds a heat that melts the last of my exhaustion, replacing it with liquid desire that thrums through my veins.

His lips begin a methodical exploration of my body, throat first, where my pulse hammers visibly beneath thin skin. He sucks gently, just enough to make me gasp, then soothes with his tongue. Down to my collarbone, teeth scraping lightly across the ridge of bone before his mouth softens again. The valley between my breasts receives particular attention, his tongue tracing patterns that make my back arch, pressing myself more firmly against his mouth. Each kiss precisely placed, each touch deliberately timed to build anticipation that coils tighter in my belly.

When his lips finally close around my nipple, the wet heat of his mouth combined with the gentle suction makes me cry out, my hands flying to his hair to hold him there. He lavishes attention on one breast while his hand cups the other, thumb circling the neglected peak until I’m writhing beneath him, my hips seeking friction against his thigh that’s pressed between my legs.

He releases my nipple with a soft pop that makes me whimper at the loss, but then he’s moving lower, his mouth blazing a trail down my ribs. I recognize the pattern he traces with his tongue against my ribs, then my hip bone, the intricate security layout of the east wing, mapped onto my skin. The realization that he’s thinking about our work even now, that he’s merged our professional and intimate lives so completely, sends a rush of affection through me that mingles headily with desire.

His shoulders press my thighs wider as he settles between them, his breath ghosting across my most sensitive flesh. I’m already so wet, so ready, that the first brush of his tongue against me makes my hips jerk involuntarily. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as his mouth works magic, long, slow licks that make my toes curl, then focused attention on my clit that has me gasping his name like a prayer.

His teeth nip at the inside of my thigh, marking the exact spot where we installed the new emergency response system last month, and the combination of slight pain and intense pleasure makes my vision blur. He knows my body better than I know it myself, knows exactly which combination of pressure and rhythm will unravel me completely.

“Silas,” I gasp as his mouth returns to the centre of me with devastating accuracy, his tongue circling my clit with perfect pressure while two fingers slide inside me, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. My back arches off the bed, my hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure builds with terrifying intensity. He adds a third finger, stretching me, preparing me, and the fullness combined with the relentless attention of his mouth pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

Just before I shatter completely, just as that coil of tension winds so tight I can barely breathe, I summon what remains of my self-control and push at his shoulders. “Wait.”

He pauses immediately, his fingers stilling inside me, concern replacing desire in his eyes as he looks up at me from between my thighs. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” I counter, my voice rough with need. I use his moment of confusion to flip our positions, the sudden shift making his fingers slide free and leaving me achingly empty. I straddle him with newfound energy, pinning him beneath me, my hair falling around us like a curtain.

The surprise in his expression quickly gives way to appreciation as I pin his wrists above his head, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my grip, the way his pulse races beneath my fingers. “My turn.”

His breath catches as I position myself above him, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I lower myself onto him in one fluid motion, taking him completely, and the stretch is exquisite, that perfect edge between pleasure and pain, familiar yet always somehow new. He fills me so completely, so perfectly, that for a moment I can only stay still, adjusting to the fullness, feeling every ridge and vein of him inside me.

I roll my hips experimentally, grinding down, and watch his pupils dilate until his eyes are nearly black with desire. I feel the twitch of his cock inside me, the way his hands flex beneath my grip, fighting the urge to grab my hips and take control. The power of having him beneath me, at my mercy, sends a thrill through me that’s almost as intense as the physical pleasure.

“My guardian,” I whisper against his lips before claiming his mouth, setting a pace that makes his hands flex beneath my grip, his hips rising to meet my downward movements. I release his wrists to brace myself better, my palms flat against his chest where I can feel his heart hammering, and his hands immediately find my hips, guiding but not controlling, supporting but not restricting. His fingers dig into my flesh just enough to leave marks I’ll feel tomorrow, a reminder of this moment.

We move together with the practised synchronization of partners who have mapped every inch of each other’s bodies, who know exactly which angle makes the other gasp, which rhythm builds the perfect tension.

Power shifts between us like tides. I control our pace, rising and falling on him with increasing urgency, but he knows precisely when to thrust up to make my rhythm falter, when to angle his hips so he hits that spot inside me that makes my dominance waver. I pin his shoulders, grinding down hard, but his fingers find my clit, circling with exactly the right pressure to make my movements stutter, and my inner walls clench around him.

When my movements begin to lose coherence, my thighs trembling with exertion and mounting pleasure, he sits up without breaking our connection. The shift drives him impossibly deeper, hitting that perfect angle that makes me gasp against his mouth. One arm wraps around my waist, strong and secure, while his other hand tangles in my sweat-dampened hair, tilting my head back so he can claim my mouth in a kiss that tastes of desperation and devotion. Our foreheads press together when we break for air, breath mingling hot and ragged between us as we chase release, not as separate entities but as a single unit, perfectly balanced.

The tension coils tighter with each thrust, each roll of my hips, each circle of his fingers against my clit. I can feel it building in my core, spreading outward likefire through my veins, that exquisite edge between pleasure and something almost painful in its intensity. My inner walls flutter around him, tightening, and I hear his breath catch, feel his fingers dig harder into my hip.

“Look at me,” he demands softly, his voice rough and strained as my eyes start to close with mounting pleasure, my head falling back. His hand in my hair tightens just enough to guide my gaze back to his. “I want to watch you come apart.”

The intensity in his gaze, dark with desire but softened with something deeper, something that speaks of five years of trust and tenderness, is my undoing. The coil of tension snaps, and I shatter around him, pleasure crashing through me in waves so intense I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel. My body convulses, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around him as I cry out his name like a prayer, like a benediction. The orgasm rolls through me in successive waves, each one stealing my breath, making my vision blur with tears of overwhelming sensation. I feel it everywhere, in my fingertips clutching his shoulders, in my toes curling against the sheets, in the electric sparks that seem to dance across my skin wherever we touch.

Through the haze of my own pleasure, I feel him tense beneath me, his rhythm faltering. His arms tighten around me almost desperately, pulling me flush against his chest as he buries his face against my neck. I feel the moment he breaks, the sharp intake of breath against my skin, the way his whole body goes rigid, the pulse of him inside me as he comes with a groan that vibrates through both our bodies. His hips jerk upward in short, sharp thrusts as he empties himself inside me, and I feel the warmth of his release, the way his cock twitches with each pulse. His fingers dig into my back hard enough to bruise, holding me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth.

“God,” he breathes against my neck, the word barely audible, reverent. “God, I love you.”