Chapter 2: first time
The candles trembled as his fingertips brushed the curve of your shoulder, tracing the thin strap of your dress. "You smell of the meadow," he murmured, voice a low current beneath the quiet hum of the Dreaming. “And sunlight.”
You held your breath, the silky fabric suddenly feeling insubstantial against your skin, the air thick with beeswax and anticipation. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, unhooking the delicate clasp at your shoulder. The strap slithered down your arm, cool air kissing bare skin, raising goosebumps. "You are nervous," he said, his gaze fixed on the path his touch was taking.
"I am terrified," you whispered honestly, your voice catching. "In a good way though." A small, shaky laugh escaped you.
A flicker of understanding, deep and ancient, passed through his pale eyes. "There is only us here, beloved." His other hand rose, finding the second clasp. "Nothing beyond this room. Only this."
The second strap fell, joining the first. The bodice of the dress loosened, pooling slightly above your breasts. His knuckles grazed your collarbone, a whisper of contact that sent sparks skittering down your spine. You felt hyper-aware of every sensation: the slight roughness of his skin, the cool silk against your back, the frantic beat of your own heart against your ribs. He didn't rush. He studied you, the candlelight painting warm gold on your skin, his expression unreadable yet intensely focused.
His thumbs slid beneath the fabric where it rested just above your breasts. You felt the drag of silk against your nipples, already taut, a gasp escaping your lips before you could stop it. He paused, his gaze lifting to yours, questioning, patient. You nodded, mute, unable to form words. The fabric yielded to his gentle pressure, easing down, baring you to the waist.
Cool air washed over your chest, a contrast to the heat flooding your face. His gaze lingered, steady as moonlight, drinking in the sight of you without haste, without demand—only reverence.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured, and the way the word left his lips was less praise than revelation, as though he were naming something inevitable.
Your breath stuttered. “You make me feel like I am.”
His hand rose, brushing a thumb slowly across the curve of your breast, light enough to make your skin tighten beneath his touch. You gasped, the sound breaking the silence like glass, and his eyes searched yours at once, pale and intent.
“Too much?”
“No.” The word tumbled out, trembling but certain. “Please don’t stop.”
He obeyed, but slowly, his fingers exploring you with the patience of centuries, as though every inch of you deserved to be discovered and remembered. He bent his head, his lips brushing the hollow of your throat, cool and soft. Each kiss fell like a vow—collarbone, shoulder, the swell of your breast—his breath fanning warm over damp skin.
He then sank to his knees and you clutched at his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid strength of him, your body responding before your thoughts could catch up. A whimper slipped free when his mouth finally closed around your nipple, tongue circling with delicate precision. He hummed low in his chest, a sound of approval that sent shivers spiraling down your spine.
You gasped, your back arching into him, the sensation sharp and overwhelming, as though his mouth had found the very center of your nerves. Your fingers tightened in his hair, the silky strands slipping between them as if the act of holding him there was the only thing keeping you tethered.
He lingered, worshipful in his attention, alternating between feather-light flicks of his tongue and the slow, deliberate pull of his lips. The sound that left you was half-moan, half-plea, and his answering hum vibrated through you, reverberating deep in your chest.
At last he drew back, pale eyes lifting to meet yours, lips parted, glistening. “You taste of salt and sunlight,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened. “I could lose myself here.”
Your heart stuttered, your thighs pressing together instinctively against the coil of heat that built lower in your body. “Don’t stop,” you whispered again, breathless, your voice breaking on the edge of a moan.
His hand slid down, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, until his cool fingers brushed the fabric that still shielded the last of you.
Your breath came quick and shallow as his fingers lingered at the edge of your dress. The anticipation coiled so tightly in you that you couldn’t bear another moment of barrier between his touch and your skin. With trembling urgency, you wriggled free, easing the loosened fabric down over your hips, pushing it past your thighs until it spilled onto the floor in a soft heap.
The cool air kissed every inch of you, and you flushed hot in answer, suddenly laid almost bare before him. Morpheus’s gaze followed the path of the garment, his eyes dark with a reverence that felt almost unbearable.
Still kneeling, he reached for the hem of his own shirt. You watched, breathless, as he drew it upward, the motion slow, deliberate. The fabric slid over the pale lines of his torso, revealing lean muscle cut by shadows and candlelight. When he tossed the garment aside, the Dreaming itself seemed to hold its breath.
You swallowed, nerves and desire tangling in your chest. He remained there on his knees before you, stripped to the waist, his hair falling dark around his face as he lifted his eyes to yours.
“Beloved,” he murmured, voice a low vibration, “you need not tremble. There is no judgment in me—only devotion.”
“Beloved,” he murmured, voice a low vibration, “you need not tremble. There is no judgment in me—only devotion.”
His hands, steady and cool, slid up your arms before guiding you gently backwards. The mattress yielded beneath you, the dark linen soft against your bare skin as you reclined, your breath uneven. He hovered for a moment, still kneeling at the edge of the bed, watching you with a gaze that stripped you far more completely than your dress had.
Then, with infinite care, his hands found your hips. His thumbs pressed lightly at the hollows there, a grounding touch, as though reminding you of your own body. He looked up once more, pale eyes asking a question without words.
You nodded, heat rushing through you. “Yes,” you whispered, the word trembling but certain.
His fingers hooked the last thin barrier at your hips, drawing it down slowly, reverently, as though it were not fabric at all but some sacred veil. The whisper of it sliding down your thighs made your skin prickle, your breath catch. When he eased the garment away entirely, laying it aside with deliberate care, you felt utterly bare—not just of clothing, but of every shield you had ever worn.
Morpheus’s gaze roved over you, slow, consuming, yet there was nothing hungry in it—only awe, as though he were beholding something more rare than starlight. His voice came low, roughened by the weight of it. “You are mine,” he said, not as a claim, but as a vow. “And I am yours.”
His hands traced your thighs, feather-light, coaxing them apart just enough for him to settle between them, still kneeling, the candlelight painting his skin in gold and shadow.
His hands traced your thighs, feather-light, coaxing them apart just enough for him to settle between them, still kneeling, the candlelight painting his skin in gold and shadow.
For a moment he only looked at you, pale eyes intent, unhurried, as though this unveiling was not mere flesh but something sacred. Then he bent, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Another, higher. His mouth charted a slow path along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, each kiss deliberate, reverent, a vow written in breath and warmth.
By the time his lips hovered just short of your center, you were trembling with need, your breath ragged. You reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, and your voice broke on a whisper. “Please.”
His hands anchored at your hips, his thumbs stroking small, grounding circles as though to remind you of his presence, his patience. Then at last, he lowered his mouth to you.
The first brush of his tongue stole the air from your lungs. Cool, then warm, deliberate, tracing you with the care of one who knew how to unmake and remake with a single touch. He worked slowly at first, teasing, mapping you, listening with unnerving precision to every gasp, every shiver.
When his tongue circled your most sensitive point, pressure light but devastating, your hips jerked helplessly, a moan spilling from your throat. He hummed in answer, the vibration reverberating through you, and your thighs tightened instinctively around his shoulders.
“Morpheus—” his name fractured on your lips, half-plea, half-benediction.
He did not relent. His tongue moved in slow, perfect circles, alternating with firmer strokes that made your vision blur, his cool breath fanning your overheated skin. His hands held you steady, not to restrain, but to keep you from unraveling entirely. Every movement, every flick of his tongue, was devotion incarnate.
You were undone piece by piece, your body trembling, your voice breaking into gasps and whimpers that filled the candlelit chamber. When the climax finally took you, it crashed like a storm—violent, inevitable, shattering. You arched against him, a cry torn from your throat as the world dissolved in white-hot sensation.
He stayed with you through it, his mouth softening, his tongue gentling, until you trembled from sensitivity. Only then did he lift his head, lips glistening, eyes pale fire. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, as though sealing the moment like a vow.
“Beloved,” he murmured, voice rough with reverence. “You are light itself.”
Your breath still came in shallow gasps, skin humming from the afterglow, when his cool thumb brushed your slick folds again. He watched your body tense, a low hum vibrating in his chest. "Still sensitive?"
"God, yes," you managed, arching slightly off the sheets as he applied the faintest pressure. "But... don't stop."
His gaze remained locked on yours, star-filled eyes unblinking, as that same thumb shifted lower, tracing your entrance with deliberate slowness. The coolness of his skin against your heat was shocking, electrifying. You whimpered, fingers knotting in the dark linen. "Morpheus..."
"Breathe, beloved," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "This is only preparation."
His thumb circled, pressed, then retreated, a teasing rhythm that had your hips rocking uselessly. Then, without warning, the blunt coolness of his index finger replaced it, nudging firmly against your entrance. There was pressure, a sharp initial stretch that made you gasp, then a slow, deliberate slide inward.
"Oh." The sound punched out of you, sharp and involuntary. It wasn'tt pain, not really, just a profound, unfamiliar fullness. He was inside you. Deep. His finger felt impossibly thick, cool and smooth, reaching places untouched.
He held utterly still, letting you adjust, his eyes searching your face. "Tell me." A command, wrapped in velvet.
"It's... strange. Good strange. Deep." You shifted experimentally, clenching around him. A gasp escaped you. "God, that's... intense."
A faint, approving curve touched his lips. He began to move. Slowly. An agonizingly deliberate withdrawal, then that smooth, cool slide back in, deeper this time. His palm cradled you, the heel pressing firmly against your clit with each thrust. The dual sensation – the deep internal stroke and the insistent pressure outside – was overwhelming, stealing your breath. Your head thrashed against the pillow. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough now.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his unwavering pale gaze. Seeing your own unraveling reflected in his ancient eyes was its own kind of exposure. His finger curled slightly inside you, rubbing against a spot that sent a jolt like lightning up your spine. You cried out, back arching violently off the bed. "There! God, there!"
He found it again. And again. A relentless, focused pressure against that spot, timed with the firm circle of his palm. Pleasure coiled tighter than before, a white-hot spring in your belly. You felt stretched, filled, utterly possessed. "More," you gasped, the word ragged. "Please, I need... another."
He paused, finger buried deep. His gaze held yours, intense, questioning. "You are certain?"
"Yes. Now." You pushed your hips down, taking him deeper, demanding. "I can take it. Please."
The second finger joined the first. The stretch was immediate, profound – a burning fullness that stole your breath, making you whimper. He held still again, letting the ache ease, his thumb stroking your hipbone. "Breathe through it."
You focused on his eyes, on the cool air hitting your skin, forcing air into your lungs. The burning sensation receded, replaced by an even deeper pressure, an incredible fullness. "Okay," you breathed, trembling. "Okay... move."
He began the slow slide again. Two cool fingers now, stretching you impossibly wide, reaching deeper. Each withdrawal felt like loss, each thrust a reclaiming. The drag was slick, intense, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. His palm ground against your clit with every deep push, the dual assault relentless. The pressure built, coiling impossibly tight, radiating out from your core in electric waves.
Your vision blurred, the candlelight fracturing. You were babbling, half-formed pleas and his name shattering into gasps. You felt him everywhere - inside you, against you, his gaze pinning you. The world narrowed to the slick sounds, the deep thrusts, the unbearable tension coiling at your very center. You were balanced on a knife-edge, trembling violently.
"Let go," he commanded, his voice a dark thread woven through your unraveling. "For me."