Page 36 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla is on the brink of combusting already when his hand moves upward, his fingers adding to the aching until there is a shock wave of throbbing tight around them. She gasps, one hand bracing her body against the hearth to her left and another knotted in his hair, supporting her trembling thighs.

Bryar leaves her with no time to recover before he stands, a strong arm sliding around her waist and guiding her to the bed. Careful not to create too much noise and alert the pious men just outside the room, they lower themselves into the comfort of the bed. Bryar’s hands waste no time in pulling her close, her red-hot skin coated with sweat from his heat, and that of pure ecstasy.

A soft moan escapes her as she sucks in a needy breath, but he silences her with a firm kiss, his teeth gently bearing into her bottom lip.

Eagerly, she drags her nails down his chest and fumbles with the laces of his trousers, frantic for their union. Myla pushes him to his back, and he concedes control, peering up at her.

“Do you hurt still?” she whispers, taking him in her hand and stroking upwards, and down again until he throbs in her hand, evoking a deep moan from him.

His head falls back, and he nods. “Terribly.”

With a touch as soft as velvet, she repeats the motion, satisfied as he grows even harder. Leaning to press her lips to his, she whispers, “And now?”

“Unbearably,” he growls, nipping at her lips.

Trembling with anticipation, Myla moves forward, aligning her hips with his before slowly lowering herself onto him. The first thrust is deep, and coaxes a unanimous gasp from them both.

“How about now?” she asks finally, an ecstatic smile stretching across her face as he simply responds with another passionate thrust. “Good,” she replies, digging fingers into his chiseled abdomen. “But just to be safe,” her hips roll forward in unison with his in a slow tease, her thighs flexing as she moves up and down around him.

His entire body tenses as he pushes himself into a sitting motion, drawing her against him so his mouth can find hers, then flipping her onto her back so he once again commands the pace and rhythm. There is a harmony their bodies create, moving together in a tangle of touches and kisses, thrusts, and moans. Bryar masterfully evokes gasps and whimpers from her. Myla reaches above, grasping the solid headboard to brace against the force of his body worshiping hers, pushing deeper and deeper inside her with each forward motion, until it is difficult to tell where she ends and he begins.

Sunken gloriously in the pillows and linens of the mattress, Myla digs her teeth into her lip to remain silent. Despite her best efforts to refrain from crying out, begging him to move with her deeper and faster. The throbbing between her legs is euphoric and demands she moan his name. Passion and pleasure lay claim to the bed, like a battlefield where their magic unfurls from their bodies, mingling unbridled. Myla’s light illuminates them and Bryar’s proves the bedding superfluous.

When at last, like a thunderous roll, pleasure at her core spills, and the earth itself ceases to spin on its axis, Bryar is forced to press a hand gently over her mouth, hushing her. An endeavor that proves futile as he reaches his own release and his body shudders while her name falls from his lips reverently.

Myla doubts they will have a place to sleep tomorrow night if they were half as loud as she suspects.

He does not remove himself at once, instead, panting and both coated with sweat from the warmth of his magic, slow kisses stoke the flame.

“Do you think they will forgive us if we repent in the morning?” Bryar asks once their breathing has steadied. His question is met with small giggles.

Elsewhere in the monastery, a humble row of monks is knelt heads bowed, praying with sanctimonious dedication, none the wiser to the religious experience taking place in the room above their heads.

Myla teeters on the edge of sleep, resisting the call only to bathe in the feeling of Bryar’s hands absently gliding up and down the side of her naked body.

Silently, Bryar draws designs across her skin the way he used to when they were younger. Myla presses a light finger against his temple. “Will you tell me what you are thinking?”

He rolls to face her head-on, the glint of the fire creating sharp lines across his disciplined body. “You said you broke when your father said it could not be me. Do you mean you asked him?”

She nods slowly, lowering her head into the crook of his neck. “Yes, I did.”

“You asked your father if you could forgo a marriage to the king for . . . someone untitled?” There is a glint of humor in his voice.

“When he told me I was to marry Caius, I cried. You know I do not do that much, so father was suspicious. I am afraid he dragged the truth from me. I never told him it was you, but he knew there was someone.”

Bryar stiffens. “How much of the truth did you tell him?”

Myla tilts her head upward to land a quick kiss before answering. “I left the more delicate details to my mother, who had to ensure negotiations did not include checking my virginal state. I cried myself sick for two weeks. And when the wedding day arrived, I cried once more, then never again.”

His arms tighten in a comforting embrace. “I could not tell by looking at you. You were very . . . stoic from the wedding on.”

Silence follows as Myla considers admitting stoicism had nothing to do with it; it was a matter of survival. “Caius knew about it all, you know.”

“About me?”

“Not you specifically. I did not want to risk him reassigning you, or worse. But there were times we would drink too much and tell each other things we never would when we were sober. I learned those were the times it was safe to tell him that my heart missed another. He did not seem to mind.”

Perhaps because she was merely a means to an end for him. Her heart did not matter at all.