Chapter 5: The Second Climax
The words hung between them, not an echo but a live wire. Fuck me to a second climax.
Alex felt the command resonate in his bones, a clean, sharp vibration that cut through the warm haze of the afterglow. There was no hesitation in him, no shyness. There was only her body, offered like this, and a rising tide of certainty.
He moved. His hands, which had been tracing gentle patterns, settled on the full curves of her hips, his grip firm, anchoring. He shifted behind her, the black satin cool under his knees. The sight of her like this, presenting herself, her powerful back tapered to that vulnerable, inviting focus, stole his breath.
He guided himself to her, finding her still slick and open from his mouth. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and they both groaned—a low, synchronized sound of anticipation. He pushed in slowly, a deliberate, stretching invasion that made her fingers claw into the pillow. He sank to the hilt, buried in a heat so profound it bordered on pain, on perfection.
“God, Lyra,” he breathed, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades.
“Move.” It was a gasp, an order, a plea.
He obeyed. He pulled back and drove into her again, setting a rhythm that was neither frantic nor gentle. It was purposeful. Each thrust was a deep, rolling push that planted him as far inside her as he could go. The sound was obscene, wet and meaty, a stark counterpoint to the faint, magical hum of the chamber.
She pushed back against him, meeting every stroke with a fierce grind of her own hips. Her moans were unfiltered, raw things that she didn’t try to swallow. “Yes. Right there. Don’t you dare stop.”
He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. His world narrowed to the feel of her clenching around him, the sweat-slick slide of her skin under his palms, the driving animal need to claim this gift she was giving him. He leaned over her, his chest to her back, one arm wrapping around her torso to hold her flush against him. His other hand slid down, under her, through the coarse thatch of gold, and found her cock.
It was thick and hard, weeping against his fingers. He wrapped his hand around it, stroking in time with his thrusts.
The effect was immediate, volcanic. Lyra cried out, a shattered, broken noise. Her body bowed, every muscle seizing. “Alex! Fuck!”
She was coming, her climax triggered not just by his length inside her but by his fist on the most intimate, hidden part of her. He felt her pulsate around him, a rhythmic, milking pressure that stripped his control away. He buried his face in her golden hair, his own release tearing from him with a guttural shout, pumping deep into her clutching heat until he was empty, spent, shaking.
They collapsed together in a heap of trembling limbs and labored breath. He was still inside her, still holding her. For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, eternal crackle of the enchanted hearth.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and rolled to his side, pulling her with him so they lay spooned in the ruined sheets. He draped an arm over her waist, his hand splayed on her stomach. She was pliant, boneless in a way he’d never felt. Utterly undone.
Her hand came up and covered his, their fingers lacing together. She didn’t speak.
The candles guttered lower, casting the room into deep, velvety shadow. The arcane runes on the walls pulsed like a slow, sleeping heartbeat.
“I’ve never let anyone do that,” she said finally, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the silence. “The… hand. During.”
He knew what she meant. Not the act itself, but the acknowledgment, the dual stimulation of both parts of her. It was the most complete surrender imaginable. “Why?”
He felt her shrug against his chest. “It’s the secret. The big, ugly secret. Even when people… accommodate me, they ignore it. They tolerate it. They pretend it’s not there, or they treat it like a curiosity. A party trick.” A bitter edge crept into her tone. “They don’t integrate it. They don’t… want it. Not really.”
He tightened his arm around her. “I want it.” The words were simple, unadorned. He kissed the knob of her spine. “I want all of you. The fire, the arrogance, the tired shoulders, the secret. All of it.”
She was silent for so long he thought she might have fallen asleep. Then her body gave a single, hard shudder. It took him a second to recognize it as a suppressed sob.
“Hey,” he murmured, turning her gently onto her back. In the near-darkness, he could see the wet tracks glittering on her temples, cutting through the faint glow of her tan. “Lyra.”
“It’s stupid,” she whispered, swiping angrily at her eyes. “I don’t cry.”
“Yes, you do.” He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, catching a tear. “It’s not stupid.”
She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and lost. In that moment, she wasn’t the radiant Sunwhisper. She was just a young woman, hiding a part of herself for so long she’d forgotten what it felt like to be fully seen. “I thought you’d be scared of it. Repulsed.”
“I was curious,” he admitted. “Then I was… amazed. It’s you. How could I be repulsed by a part of you?”
She let out a watery, shaky laugh. “Your inexperience is showing. That’s naively sweet.”
“It’s honestly true.” He kissed her, soft and lingering. “Your turn to relax. Really relax. Go to sleep.”
She nestled back into him, her body slowly yielding to exhaustion. Her breathing evened out. Just as he was drifting off himself, her voice came again, muffled by the pillow.
“Stay. Don’t go back to the apprentice quarters tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And tomorrow… there’s a thing. At the Blue Recluse. A gathering. Some of the senior mages, some visitors from Silvermoon. It’ll be boring and full of posturing.” She paused. “Come with me.”
The invitation was casual, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed its weight. Going with her meant stepping into her public world. It meant being seen.
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
“Okay.” A final, settling sigh. “Okay.”
Sunlight, real and unfiltered by magical haze, stabbed through the window, painting a bright blade across Alex’s face. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. The bed beside him was empty, but still warm.
The scent of strong coffee and frying bacon hit him, pulling him fully awake. He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. Across the chamber, at a small, elegant table he hadn’t noticed before, Lyra stood. She was already dressed, or mostly. She wore tight, black leather pants that hugged every muscle and curve, and a deep crimson tunic that was open dangerously low, revealing the swell of her breasts. Her golden hair was swept up in an intricate, severe knot. The radiating, charismatic confidence was back, armoring her completely. She looked every inch the star mage.
She was pouring coffee from a silver carafe into two crystal mugs. A plate of bacon and eggs steamed between them.
“You cook?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
“I summon,” she corrected, not looking up. A faint, magical shimmer faded from around the plate. “The kitchens owe me favors. Come eat. You’ll need fuel.”
He climbed out of bed, unabashedly naked, and padded over. She handed him a mug, her eyes giving him a swift, appreciative scan that made heat bloom on his skin. He sat, and for a few minutes, they ate in a comfortable silence that felt radically new. This was the morning after. This was what happened next.
“About tonight,” she said, swirling her coffee. “At the Recluse. Kael’thas Sunstrider might be there.”
Alex nearly choked on his bacon. “Prince ? As in, the leader of the Blood Elves?”
“The very same. He’s an old… friend.” She said the word with a peculiar flatness. “An admirer. He doesn’t take rejection well, and he doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’ He’s used to getting what he wants.”
Alex put his fork down. “And what does he want?”
Lyra met his gaze, her green eyes hard as gems. “He wants a trophy. A powerful, beautiful mage on his arm to complement his throne. He wants the version of me that performs on the training grounds. He has no interest in the secret. He’d see it as a fascinating defect to be managed, or ignored.” She took a sip. “He’ll likely make a play. A public one. To remind me of my ‘place’ and to show you yours.”
A cold knot formed in Alex’s stomach. The anxiety, the social dread, came rushing back. He was a nineteen-year-old apprentice. Kael’thas was a centuries-old prince, a legendary sorcerer. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be there,” she said simply. “With me. You don’t have to fight him. You don’t have to say a word. Just be the man who stayed the night. The man who knows the secret. That will be fight enough.”
He saw it then. The slight tremor in her hand as she set her mug down. This was the real test, far greater than anything in her bed. It was a test of his confidence, of her trust. She was walking into a lion’s den and asking him to stand beside her, unarmed.
He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. Her fingers were tense, but they turned, gripping his with a sudden, fierce strength.
“Okay,” he said.
She searched his face, looking for the fear. He knew it was there, in his eyes, in the rapid beat of his heart. But he held her gaze, and he didn’t look away.
A slow, brilliant, genuine smile transformed her face. It wasn’t her practiced, charismatic grin. It was relief. It was sunlight breaking through a storm. She lifted his hand and pressed a warm, firm kiss to his knuckles.
“Okay,” she echoed.
Outside the window, Dalaran gleamed in the morning light, a city of impossible spires and swirling magic. Somewhere in its heart, a prince was waiting. Alex finished his coffee, the bitter liquid tasting like courage, and prepared to step into her world.
The walk to the Blue Recluse was a study in contrasts. Lyra moved with her usual predatory grace, a beacon of confidence that parted the crowded Dalaran streets effortlessly. Alex, trailing slightly beside her, felt every stare like a physical touch, his apprentice robes suddenly feeling absurdly thin.
“Stop walking like you’re headed to an execution,” she murmured, looping her arm through his without breaking stride. “You’re with me. That makes you interesting, not suspect.” Her touch was an anchor, and he straightened his shoulders, matching her pace.
The tavern was a cavernous space of polished darkwood and floating, gentle mage-lights. The air smelled of arcane ozone, fine wine, and the underlying aroma of centuries-old spellcraft. A low hum of sophisticated conversation died for a fraction of a second as they entered, dozens of eyes, some adorned with glowing pupils, turning their way.
Lyra didn’t falter. She led him through the clusters of elegantly dressed elves and a few senior human magi, her chin held high. Her grip on his arm tightened minutely as they approached a central, raised table.
There, surrounded by fawning sycophants, sat Kael’thas Sunstrider. He was resplendent in phoenix-feather robes, his long, fiery hair a cascade of perfection. His presence generated a palpable heat, like standing near a dormant forge. His gaze swept over Alex with a dismissive, icy assessment before fixing on Lyra with possessive warmth.
“Lyra Sunwhisper,” he said, his voice a melodic baritone that commanded the immediate area’s silence. “Your light outshines even the floating city’s charms this evening.” He gestured to an empty seat directly at his right hand. It was an obvious, public command.
“Your flattery is as potent as your fireballs, Prince,” Lyra replied, her tone perfectly balanced between respect and neutrality. She didn’t move toward the proffered seat. Instead, she pulled Alex closer. “This is Alex, of the Kirin Tor Apprentices. My guest.”
The correction hung in the air. Kael’thas’s smile didn’t slip, but it hardened at the edges, becoming something carved from crystal. “A guest. How… instructive.” He finally deigned to look at Alex again. “And what is an apprentice’s opinion on the mana realignment theories causing strain on the ley lines near Suramar?”
It was a trap, designed to expose ignorance. Alex felt his throat tighten. He opened his mouth, a stammer brewing.
“He finds the traditionalist approach short-sighted,” Lyra cut in smoothly, her fingers giving Alex’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “We were just discussing the value of adaptive, rather than rigid, channeling techniques. Weren’t we?”
Alex nodded, finding his voice. It came out quieter than he wanted, but clear. “Yes. Rigidity breaks. Adaptation flows.”
Kael’thas’s eyes flickered between them, noting the ‘we,’ the shared space, the unspoken unity. He leaned back, steepling his long fingers. “A flow can be diverted. Or dammed. The oldest, strongest paths are often the wisest, Lyra. They have proven their worth.”
“The oldest paths also get worn into ruts,” she countered lightly, a dangerous spark in her green eyes. “Sometimes a new path, even a rough one, leads to a better view.”
The rest of the evening passed in a torturous ballet of veiled barbs and polite deflection. Kael’thas offered her rare vintage, which she declined. He suggested a private discussion of a new tactical fire spell, which she deferred. Each refusal was a masterpiece of political grace, but each one chipped at the prince’s regal composure. Alex stood beside her, a silent pillar. He felt the prince’s simmering annoyance like heat from a sun, but he kept his gaze steady, his posture relaxed. He let her do the talking, his presence alone the statement she needed.
Finally, as the moon crystals outside began to brighten, Lyra inclined her head. “The hour grows late, and my guest has studies tomorrow. A pleasure, as always, Prince.”
Kael’thas stood, a gesture of forced courtesy. His expression was a mask of calm displeasure. “The pleasure was mine. It is… enlightening to see where your current interests lie. They seem so… mundane.” His gaze swept over Alex one last time, a clear dismissal. “Good evening.”
Once they were outside, the cool night air hitting them, Lyra’s formidable posture softened by a single degree. She didn’t speak until they turned the corner, out of sight of the Recluse’s glowing windows.
Then she let out a long, shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Well.”
“He’s…” Alex searched for a word.
“A prince used to getting what he wants,” she finished, starting their walk back to her chambers. “And he wanted to make you feel like a gnat on the shoulder of a goddess.” She glanced at him, a new, fierce pride in her eyes. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stammer. You just… were there.”
Alex felt the exhaustion then, a deep drain that reached his bones. The sustained tension had been a magic of its own, a shield he’d had to hold without knowing the incantation. “I felt like I was going to vomit the entire time.”
“But you didn’t.” She stopped walking, turning to face him in the dim glow of a street-side crystal. Her hands came up to cradle his face. “You stood there, with the most powerful elf in the city glaring through you, for me. Because I asked you to.” Her thumb brushed his cheek. “That’s not mundane. That’s the rarest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Back in the vortex of her chamber, the runes offered their familiar, pulsing comfort. The silence was a warm blanket. Lyra moved with an uncharacteristic softness, helping him out of his apprentice robes, her touches lingering not with lust, but with a profound gratitude.
They collapsed onto the black satin, not in passion, but in shared relief. She curled into him, her head on his chest, her long body molded against his side. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his sternum.
“He’s going to be a problem,” she whispered into the dark. “Not tonight. But eventually.”
Alex kissed the top of her head, the scent of jasmine and smoke filling his senses. “Then we’ll be a problem back.”
A genuine, breathy laugh escaped her. She tilted her head up, her green eyes searching his in the faint light. The insecurity from the morning was gone, replaced by a weary, luminous joy. “Look at you.”
He was drifting, the edges of consciousness blurring. The weight of her, the warmth, the simple rightness of it, pulled him toward sleep. Her breathing deepened, matching his. In that porous space between waking and dreaming, where truth flows unbidden, the words shaped themselves on his lips, a bare whisper meant only for the dark and her.
“I love you, you are a wonderful perfect woman exactly as you are.”
Her body went utterly still against his. Then, a shuddering inhale. He felt the dampness of a single, hot tear fall onto his skin. Her arm tightened around him, holding on as if to a lifeline in a calm sea. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her grip said everything.
Then her breath hitched, a sharp, quiet little sound that wasn’t a sob but its precursor. He felt the first hot tear land on his chest, a sudden, shocking dampness against his skin. More followed, a silent, steady leak that tracked down his ribs.
She cried without a sound, her body trembling against him in minute, controlled waves. Her face remained buried against his sternum, hiding. He didn’t speak. He simply held her, one hand stroking the fierce line of her spine, the other cradling the back of her head where the elegant knot had come partially undone.
The tears weren’t sad. He knew that. They were a pressure valve releasing a decade of loneliness, of expecting rejection, of armor worn so long it had fused to the skin. They were for every time she’d hidden, every time she’d been treated as a beautiful defect. They were for the shock of being seen, completely, and not turned away.
He pressed his lips to her hairline and stayed there, a silent anchor in her quiet storm. The candles guttered lower. Her breathing eventually evened out, the tension melting from her muscles until she was a warm, heavy weight of exhausted peace against him. In the dark, with her secret shared and her tears spent, they slept.
Morning arrived not with a blade of light, but with a gradual, grey brightening of the chamber’s perpetual twilight. Alex woke to the feel of Lyra’s breath, steady and warm against his neck. Her leg was thrown over his hip, a possessive weight. He didn’t move, savoring the simple, startling fact of her presence in the quiet.
Her eyes fluttered open. Green, immediate, unguarded. A faint, sleepy smile touched her lips before she buried her face against his shoulder with a muff groan. “I’m not moving. The outside world is canceled.”
He laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest under her ear. His hand drifted down the muscular plane of her back, resting in the dip of her waist. “I have a lecture on elemental theory at ten.”
“Boring,” she pronounced, nipping lightly at his skin. “Skip it. Tell them you were being held captive by a terrifyingly beautiful mage. It’s true.” She shifted, stretching like a great cat, and the sheet slid down to reveal the sun-kissed slope of her breast. She caught him looking. Her smile turned wicked. “Or we could find a better use for the morning.”
He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to lose himself in her again, in the easy, hungry language their bodies had learned. But the memory of her tears on his chest, the raw peace that followed, changed the shape of his want. It wasn’t just about escape anymore. It was about building something in the quiet moments, too.
“We could,” he said, tracing her jawline with his thumb. “Or we could just lie here. Talk.”
She blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Talking in the morning, without the urgency of touch, was its own unfamiliar territory. She studied him, then nodded once, settling back onto her pillow to face him. “Okay. Talk. About what?”
“Anything. Everything. The things you think about when you’re not dazzling a room or setting something on fire.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “What’s your favorite color when it’s not for dramatic effect?”
She snorted. “Absurd question.” She was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting to the pulsating runes on the ceiling. “A very specific shade of deep blue. Like the sky an hour after sunset, just before it becomes black. It’s… quiet.”
“I like that,” he said.
They talked. He told her about growing up in a Westfall farmhouse, the smell of tilled earth and hay, the way his mother could whistle a tune that made the crows leave the corn. She listened, genuinely curious, asking about the texture of mud and the weight of a harvest basket. She told him about the suffocating polish of Silvermoon, the pressure of being a “princess,” how her first fire spell had been an accident born of pure frustration that scorched her tutor’s prized robes.
The conversation meandered, comfortable and deep. The enchanted hearth crackled. He felt a courage, soft and steady, rise in his chest. The moment was right. It was real.
“You know,” he began, his voice casual, “from Monday on there are two weeks of academic vacation.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, playing with a strand of his dark hair. “A glorious expanse of nothing. I plan to sleep for seven days straight and then maybe set a small, controlled part of the city on fire for fun.”
“I want to visit my parents in Westfall.”
Her fingers stilled. “That’s a long flight on a gryphon. But fine. Send them my regards.” She said it lightly, a clear dismissal of the subject.
He took a breath. “I’d like you to come with me. Get to know them. I want to introduce the woman I love.”
The air in the chamber vanished.
Lyra froze. Her entire body went rigid. She pulled back from him, sitting up straight, the sheet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide, panicked pools of green.
“Absolutely not.”
“Lyra—”
“No.” The word was sharp, final. She scrambled out of bed, turning her back to him, her breath coming in short hits. “I don’t know anything about farms. Dirt. Seeds. Plows.” She spat the words like curses. “They’ll see an arrogant, rich blood elf. They’ll ask about my family. I am a princess. They’ll ask about grandchildren. I can’t ever. You know that.” She whirled around, her face a mask of pure, undiluted fear. “And they’ll notice my cock. They’ll see it in the way I stand, the way I move, they’ll hear it in my voice. Farm people notice things. They’ll know.”
She was pacing now, a caged animal, her nakedness a vulnerability rather than a power. This was a different kind of exposure, far more terrifying than Kael’thas’s court.
Alex sat up slowly. He didn’t reach for her. He just let the words hang, let her panic echo off the violet silks. He waited until her pacing brought her back to face him.
“I am who I am,” he said, his voice calm and clear in the tense silence, “because my parents taught me to look at a person’s character. Not their appearance, not their origin.” He held her terrified gaze. “They care if you make me happy. They care if you’re kind.” He gave a small, helpless shrug. “That’s it. That’s the whole test.”
Lyra stared at him. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. The fear didn’t leave her eyes, but it met something new—a staggering, disbelieving hope. It was a war on her features.
“You can’t know that,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“I do know that.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is for them.”
She looked away, towards the window that showed nothing but the shimmering barrier of Dalaran. She was seeing rolling golden fields, a humble house, simple people with simple judgments. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her own arms. The pride, the armor, the centuries of elven sophistication, were useless here. This was a battlefield for which she had no spells.
“Dirt,” she repeated weakly, a last, fraying defense.
“It washes off,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips.
A long, trembling silence stretched between them. He could see her thinking, weighing the terrifying prospect against the steady certainty in his eyes. Against the man who had stood unmoved before a prince for her. Against the man who had whispered he loved her perfect, secret self.
She turned back to him. The panic was still there, but it was receding, replaced by a wild, daunting courage. It was the same look she’d had before a duel on the training grounds.
“What,” she said, her voice rough, “do people even wear in Westfall?”