Chapter 13: The Worship
The cold lingered like frost on her bones, a phantom touch that had nothing to do with the night air. Feyre's fingers trembled against the railing, her body still humming from Rhysand's mouth on her, but her mind kept snagging on that presence. Tamlin. Watching. Wanting. Waiting.
Then the shadows moved.
They rose from the corners of the balcony like smoke given will, curling around them in a living shroud. Rhysand's power poured from him in waves, sealing them off from the world, from the river, from the sentinel song. The darkness pressed close, warm and absolute, and within it, there was only him.
His violet eyes caught the lantern's dying light, burning with a fire that had nothing to do with anger. He said nothing. He simply lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back, and carried her through the glass doors into their bedroom.
The silk sheets were cool beneath her skin as he laid her down. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, silver and soft, but Rhysand stood between her and the world, a silhouette of shadow and muscle. He watched her with that possessive stillness she knew so well, the one that made her breath catch and her thighs press together.
He reached for the headboard, and silk cords materialized in his hands, deep violet, soft as breath.
"Rhys." Her voice came out rough, not from fear. From want. From the desperate need to be anchored to him, to this, to now.
His mouth curved, slow and dark. "I'm going to worship every inch of you," he murmured, binding her left wrist to the headboard, the silk snug but not painful. "Every scar. Every curve. Every place he dared to touch." The right wrist followed, and he tugged the cords, testing, watching her strain against them with satisfaction. "Until the dawn breaks, you will not think of him. You will not feel him. You will only feel me."
Feyre arched into the restraint, the stretch pulling her breasts up, her nipples hardening in the cool air. "Then stop talking."
He laughed, low and dark, and dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hands slid up her calves, slow, reverent, his thumbs tracing the arches of her feet before his mouth followed. He kissed the inside of her ankle, the sensitive dip behind her knee, the trembling flesh of her inner thigh. Each press of his lips was a brand, a claim, an erasure of everything that was not him.
His breath ghosted over her skin, warm and teasing. "You have no idea," he said, his voice muffled against her thigh, "how many nights I dreamed of this. Of you. Spread open for me, bound and willing, your cunt dripping for my mouth."
Feyre's hips bucked, seeking him, but he pulled back just enough to deny her. His teeth grazed her inner thigh, a sharp little nip that made her gasp. He soothed it with his tongue, then moved higher.
"Rhys, please."
"Please what, Feyre darling?" His eyes glittered up at her, wicked and knowing.
"Please what?" His voice was silk and sin, his breath hot against the slick heat of her cunt.
"Please let me come." The words tore from her throat, raw and shameless. She pulled against the silk cords, the strain making her wrists ache, her hips bucking helplessly toward his mouth.
He smiled against her thigh, a slow, cruel curve of lips that she felt like a brand. "Not yet, darling. I told you I'd worship every inch." His tongue traced a wet path up her inner thigh, stopping just short of where she burned for him. "And I meant every word."
His mouth moved lower, finally, finally, and she sobbed in relief as his tongue swept through her folds. He licked her slow and deep, from her entrance to her clit, savoring her like she was the finest wine in Prythian. His hands pressed her thighs apart, holding her open, and he devoured her with a lazy, deliberate rhythm that made her see stars.
"Rhys, please, I'm so close," she gasped, her hips grinding against his mouth.
He hummed against her, the vibration sending a shockwave through her clit, and she felt the edge approaching, that beautiful precipice—
And then he pulled away.
Feyre's eyes flew open, a broken sound escaping her. "No. No, Rhys, please—"
He was grinning, that wicked, knowing grin, his chin glistening with her slick. "Not yet." He reached to the bedside table, and the soft hum of a vibrator filled the air. "I said I'd worship you. I didn't say I'd be quick."
He pressed the toy against her clit, the vibration humming through her like a current of lightning. Her back arched off the bed, a scream caught in her throat. He held it there, watching her writhe, his free hand stroking her inner thigh with maddening gentleness.
"Look at you," he murmured. "So beautiful. So desperate. All for me."
"Yes, all for you, only for you, please—" The words tumbled out, incoherent, as the vibration built her up again. Higher, higher, the pressure coiling in her belly like a viper about to strike.
She was right there. Right on the edge. Her toes curled, her vision went white—
He pulled the vibrator away.
Feyre sobbed, truly sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she strained against her bonds. "You bastard," she hissed, but her voice broke on a moan. "Rhysand, I swear to the Cauldron, if you don't—"
He leaned over her, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted of her, of him, of everything. "If I don't what?" he breathed against her lips.
"Fuck me," she begged, the word a prayer. "Please, Rhys. I need you inside me. I need to feel you claim me. Please."
His eyes darkened, the playful cruelty melting into something rawer, more desperate. "Say it again."
"Please fuck me. I need your cock. I need you to fill me until I can't think, can't breathe, can't remember anything but you."
He moved between her thighs, positioning himself at her entrance. The head of his cock pressed against her slick, swollen flesh, teasing, torturing. His eyes held hers, violet burning into blue-grey.
"One more time, Feyre." His voice was a growl, barely controlled. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," she gasped. "Only you. Forever you."
He slammed into her.
The force of it drove the breath from her lungs, his thick cock stretching her, filling her completely in one brutal, perfect thrust. She screamed his name, her body convulsing around him, the orgasm he'd denied her twice crashing over her like a tidal wave.
But he didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his hips slamming against hers with a punishing rhythm, his balls slapping her ass with every stroke. The cords bit into her wrists as she pulled against them, desperate to touch him, to hold him, to claw at his back.
"Rhys—Rhys, I'm coming, I'm coming—"
"I know, darling." His voice was ragged, his breathing harsh. "Come with me. Come on my cock and let the whole world hear you."
She felt him swell inside her, felt his own release building, and she clung to the edge of her climax, suspended, waiting for him.
He thrust once more, deep and grinding, and roared her name as he came, his release flooding her, hot and thick. And that was all it took. She shattered, her body clamping down on him, milking him through every pulse of his orgasm, their climaxes crashing together like waves against the shore.
They came together, tangled and trembling, their cries mingling in the moonlit room.
He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. The vibrator had long since fallen to the floor, forgotten. His weight was a comfort, an anchor, pressing her into the mattress as the aftershocks rippled through them both.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his violet eyes soft now, the possessive fire banked to embers. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, each touch reverent.
"Better?" he murmured.
Feyre laughed, breathless and raw. "You absolute bastard. You made me beg."
"And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He reached up, untying the silk cords from the headboard, then from her wrists. He massaged the marks they'd left, his thumbs tracing the red lines on her skin. "I could watch you come for me forever, Feyre. Every night. Every morning. Every moment in between."
She pulled him down, kissing him deeply, tasting herself on his lips. "Then don't leave me."
He stroked her hair back from her face, his gaze unwavering. "Never. Not for a moment. Not for an eternity."
Outside, the sentinels sang on, but the cold presence was gone. There was only Rhysand, and the warmth of his body, and the steady beat of his heart against hers.