Page 75 of Haunted Crowns
His breathing turned heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled exhales. His gaze dropped to her parted lips, warm and tempting beyond reason. When she reached for the buttons of his shirt, his last coherent thought vanished.
One step forward, one push, and Eris stumbled back into the bedroom as he kicked the door shut with a decisive click. The tension between them burned. She stepped back, breath shaky, eyes wide and locked on his. He kept moving, and she kept yielding, until the backs of her knees hit the bed.
They paused, caught in a single charged moment, the final chance to turn back.
Neither moved.
He slowly unbuttoned what remained of her ruined blouse. She fumbled to help, but her fingers shook, so he took over. Her skirt slipped down in a single breath, leaving her standing before him in nothing but lace.
She inhaled sharply, crossing her arms, a flicker of insecurity flashing across her face. Stephan swallowed hard. Gods, did she even know how she wrecked him just standing there?
His hands hovered, aching to pull her arms down and show her there was nothing to hide, but he held still. This had to be her choice. The air thickened, charged and suffocating. He brushed his fingers against her wrist, a silent reassurance. She exhaled slowly, then stepped closer instead of away.
Her trembling fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt, hesitant. Stephan stayed still, barely breathing, letting her lead. Her touch was featherlight, a sweet, unbearable torture. He tried to wait, but his hands moved faster, desperate.
His patience snapped. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing lean muscle and strength shaped by years of war. The air left her lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
She ached to touch him, to feel his strength beneath her palms, to pull him flush against her, his hands gripping her like he would never let go. The thought made her dizzy.
His gaze darkened, as if he could read every wicked thought unraveling inside her.
And then, he moved. He was done waiting.
His touch was firm and careful as he eased her down, fingers threading through her hair, guiding her to the pillow. Then he stilled.
Gods.
She lay beneath him, hair wild across the sheets, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering with shyness and raw want. He devoured her, starved for the delicate rise of her collarbones, the soft warmth of her skin, the uneven breaths she struggled to catch. She was achingly beautiful, and she was finally about to be his.
His fingers traced the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, drawing a shiver from her. He brushed his lips over hers, soft, teasing, before trailing down her neck to the rapid pulse beneath her skin.
She forgot to breathe.
His hands slid up her arms, pinning her wrists above her head, holding her still against the hard truth of his need.
She gasped, legs parting in instinctive invitation, desperate to feel him. His name slipped from her lips, a soft, breathless surrender. The sound nearly broke him.
He moved lower, mouth grazing her collarbone, down to the swell of her breasts. She moaned, fingers twisting in the sheets.
But then she winced, a small sound he felt more than heard, her body tensing beneath him. He stilled against her, lips hovering over her pulse, fingers spanning her waist. Instinctively, he eased his weight off her, adjusting his hold, his touch softening around her wounds.
Then it happened again, another sharp inhale of pain.
His stomach twisted. His grip loosened, as if realizing she might break.
His eyes lifted to hers, searching. "Eris?" His voice was rough, thick with more than restraint.
She exhaled, her fingers tightening against his back. "It’s okay," she whispered. "Keep going."
She wasn’t ignoring the pain. She just couldn’t bear for Rurik’s touch to be the last on her skin. She needed Stephan—his love, his body—to erase what had been done. To make her feel like herself again.
He froze for a breath, torn between fear and need, feeling her cling to him, anchoring them both to this moment. When he kissed her again, it was slower, more measured, his lips barely brushing her skin, his touch featherlight and cautious. And yet, the tension still coiled hot between them.
His mouth drifted lower, barely skimming her collarbone, testing. His hands softened at her waist, holding instead of taking, wary of his own strength. She sighed against him, arching into his touch, a silent, urgent plea. But he stayed alert, every shift of her breath, every flicker of movement setting his nerves alight. He dragged his lips lower, teasing the warmth of her skin, but the way she stiffened made him tense. He couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.
Then came another wince, and this time, he knew.
She sucked in a sharp breath, pain not pleasure, and the sound shattered him. He froze, his body going still above hers, heat turning cold, awful. He wasn’t making her feel good. He was hurting her.
