Page 160 of The Violet Raven

My hands tremble as I set her down, slow, deliberate, reverent, as if setting something sacred into place.

A wicked smile tugs at my lips, teasing despite the urgent fire licking beneath my skin. “I was just waitin’ to hear you beg,” I murmur before I dip lower, aiming to place another lingering, taunting kiss to the base of her neck.

She scoffs, the sound vibrating softly against my lips—a quiet protest, laced with amusement, edged with want.

But the moment my mouth grazes her skin, I feel her shiver, the teasing edge in her breath giving way to something deeper, something consuming.

I trail my mouth lower, my hands mapping the delicate curve of her spine, fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines as if committing her to memory—every reaction, every shiver, every soft intake of breath.

Slowly, she turns for me, and I reach for the ties of her dress. I slide my fingers beneath the fabric, teasing over her shoulders, my knuckles ghosting down the length of her spine. A shiver wracks through her, and I feel it everywhere—in the way her breath stutters, in the way she leans into me, trusting me to unwrap her like something sacred.

I breathe her in, dizzy from the sheer presence of her—of this moment, of everything we’ve fought to have. I continue to explore, revealing every delicate curve of the body that I only ever dreamed of laying bare for my eyes alone.

When the last barrier falls away, I step back, memorising her in this moment of raw, unguarded beauty. She’s luminous, like something carved out of light and shadow, and it’s so much more than I ever imagined.

“You are... stunning,” I finally manage, the words a whisper, thick with everything I feel. My hands ache to touch her, to learn her from memory and keep her safe in this moment forever.

She reaches for me then, pulling me back into her world, into her warmth, and I surrender to her completely. My hands find her again, and I vow, in the here and now, to show her exactly how much I adore every part of her—inside and out.

My mouth is on her an instant later, drawing a nipple deep. She cries out as her fingers find their way into my hair, pulling me further into her as I lap at her sweet flesh. My teeth and tongue playing her body like a finely tuned instrument.

I cup each breast, thumbs grazing the sensitive peaks until she arches into my touch, a wanton moan escaping her lips. She gasps as I roll the other nipple between my fingers, suckling and teasing until pleasure borders on exquisite pain.

I pause only long enough to lay her down on the bed with deliberate care; the mattress dipping beneath her as her body settles into the softness. The sight of her there, framed by the flickering light and utterly captivating, washes away any hesitation that idles. My hand lingers on her cheek, thumb brushing the flush of her skin, and I can’t help but marvel at her—at us—at the fact that this moment is real and ours.

Every touch, every kiss, feels like a promise I can finally keep. Her skin is soft beneath my lips, her breath hitching with every press of my mouth as I make my way lower.

I am insatiable.

Triona deserves to be worshipped, and I’m helpless to do anything but oblige. As I settle between her thighs, the heat of her need calls to me. She is so damned addicting.

I tremble in anticipation, wanting to make this as perfect for her as it will be for me. My fingers brush against her centre, finding her wet and wanting. “Ye’re dripping for me.” She moans as I stroke her slick heat, thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre. She rocks against my hand, chasing the pleasure I draw out.

I look. Linger. Let the hunger rise until it’s unbearable. Until the aching, throbbing need to have my mouth on her is too much to deny.

“I need to taste you.” The words slip out, rough, ragged, dragged from the very depths of my hunger.

I let my fingers drift, featherlight, trailing up the inside of her thigh, her warm, flushed skin searing into my palms as she spreads wider, parting for me with a reverence that borders on desperation.

I grip the back of one thigh, fingers kneading, pressing, until I can lift one leg up, guiding it over my shoulder.

She lets me, pliant, eager, offering herself up so sweetly.

I graze my lips over her ankle first—soft, slow, worshipful—a teasing contradiction to the hunger burning in my veins.

I trace my way down, mouth dragging, teasing, along the delicate line of her calf, over the soft dip behind her knee. My lips part, tongue skimming just enough to make her squirm, to make her tremble in my hands.

“D’ye want it as badly as I do?” I murmur.

Her answer is in her body, in the way her thighs quiver, in the way her fingers fist the sheets, in the way a tiny, helpless moan slips out the second my lips move higher.

I drag my tongue slowly, tasting her, teasing her, letting her feel what’s coming before I ever give it to her.

“Want the warmth of my mouth?” I whisper the words against her skin, my lips barely brushing where I know she’s burning. I press a single, wet kiss, then another, trailing lower, pausing when I reach the smouldering centre between her thighs, savouring the way her body quivers in anticipation. The way her breath hitches as I hover there, so close to where she needs me most.

“Spreading you open… tastin’ you… pullin’ you apart with my tongue until you cannae do anythin’ but sob for me?”

She whimpers, her back arching. I press my mouth closer, close enough that she can feel every word I say, every breath that fans over her soaked skin.