Chapter 4: Climax
The reception had not yet ended.
Laughter still drifted on starlit breezes. Floating lanterns bobbed above the gathered guests, casting golden reflections on the marble floors of the palace. Somewhere, Delirium was balancing a champagne flute on her forehead, and Matthew was crying about the cake again.
But none of it followed you.
The world fell quiet the moment you stepped through the hidden doors behind the eastern colonnade—your hand in his, your dress whispering against the floor, your heartbeat fluttering like a secret too beautiful to speak aloud.
You didn’t need to speak.
He had known.
That subtle shift in your gaze. The softness in your voice when you’d leaned in, resting a hand over his chest and whispering, “Would it be terribly selfish if we left our own wedding?”
And now, here you were—walking the corridor toward your bed chambers, the hush of the Dreaming folding around you like breath.
His fingers never left yours.
When you reached the door, he didn’t open it with a gesture or magic. He reached for the handle like a man, not a king. Grounded. Present.
When it swung open, the room was aglow.
Candles flickered low on ancient shelves. The fire crackled in the hearth. Soft, cool wind moved the sheer curtains framing the tall windows, letting in silver starlight. There were flowers you didn’t recognize and pillows that shimmered faintly with dream-silk. It smelled like midnight and memory and something you could only name as him.
And still, he hadn’t spoken.
Not until the door clicked shut behind you.
Then he turned.
And he looked at you like you were a wish he never dared make.
“You are,” he said, “unspeakably beautiful.”
“I am huge,” you replied flatly.
His brow lifted, just slightly. “You are radiant.”
“I’m carrying a tiny demigod and look like a bloated swan.”
He stepped closer, slow and sure, his eyes never leaving yours. “And yet I am still in awe.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already reaching for you—fingertips brushing your cheek, then trailing down the side of your neck with maddening gentleness.
“I do not see flaws,” he murmured. “I see proof of love made tangible. I see the shape of our future—alive, within you.”
Your breath caught.
His hand splayed over your belly—light, reverent—his thumb stroking slow arcs into your skin as if committing the curve of you to memory.
You leaned into his touch, trembling just slightly. “You always know what to say.”
He smiled, just barely. “Only when I speak from truth.”
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t hungry, not at first. It was soft. Certain. Like a vow whispered against your mouth. His fingers brushed through your hair as his lips claimed you again, deeper now, pulling you into him with every breath.
You melted, one hand on his chest, the other curling behind his neck, anchoring yourself to him as he walked you backward—slowly, carefully—toward the bed. The world shifted around you, starlight sinking into the floor, silk unraveling beneath your feet. The Dreaming answered him like it always did—folding space, softening light, blessing this moment in a hush of warmth and wonder.
The edge of the bed met the backs of your knees, and you gasped softly as you tilted into him.
He caught you, of course.
One hand at the small of your back, the other cradling your jaw, steadying you—not that you felt unsteady, not exactly. Just undone.
“Morpheus,” you breathed.
He didn’t reply, not with words. Instead, his hands moved to your shoulders, brushing along the delicate straps of your gown—his touch featherlight, unhurried.
You stood still as his fingers found the fastenings at your back.
One by one, they yielded to him.
The dress began to loosen.
It slipped lower.
He paused then, lifting his gaze to yours.
“May I?” he asked softly, though your vow was already sealed, your bodies already aching to be joined.
Still, he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”
He bent and kissed the curve of your shoulder first—softly, reverently. Then the other. And as his lips found your skin, the gown eased downward, his hands guiding it with a tenderness that made you ache.
It slid over your hips.
Pooled at your feet.
You stood before him, bare beneath the starlight, the firelight, the weight of his gaze.
You weren’t cold.
Not in the slightest.
He reached out, hands moving to your waist—holding you like you were something rare, not because you were fragile, but because you were cherished. Like he was honoring the sight of you. The shape of you. Every change your body had made. Every curve. Every breath.
“My wife,” he murmured, the words reverent—almost awed.
It wasn’t just a title. It was a vow. A promise. A truth made flesh and spoken aloud.
You felt your breath catch at the sound of it, the gravity of that word in his voice, low and velvet-dark, wrapping around your name like silk.
Then, gently, he leaned in.
He pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, then to your collarbone, then lower—each one slow, deliberate, like he was etching a map of devotion across your skin.
You sighed, your hands threading into his hair, curling into the inky softness as he knelt before you, his lips tracing the gentle curve of your belly.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And when he spoke next, his voice was quiet enough to break you.
“You carry our child,” he whispered against your skin . “A piece of us both.”
His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and you could feel the reverence in it like a physical touch. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, tracing a path down your cheek. He looked up at you, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight, the starlight, the love in your own gaze.
And then, with a gentleness that belied the raw, possessive hunger in his eyes, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your undergarments and slowly drew them down.
Your breath hitched as the cool air brushed against your skin, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the electric charge of his touch. He helped you step out of the last of your clothes, leaving you bare before him, your body a trembling mass of anticipation.
He stood then, his gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like a caress. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire.
He reached out, his hand cupping your breast, his thumb brushing over the pebbled nipple. You gasped at the contact, your back arching into his touch.
"Does that feel good, love?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
"Yes," you whimpered, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He leaned in, his mouth capturing your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. You moaned, your hips bucking forward as he suckled, his hand wrapping around your waist to steady you.
Meanwhile, his hand moved lower, his fingers dipping into your slick heat, stroking, coaxing you open.
“You are so wet for me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. You wanted to see. You wanted to watch as his fingers moved inside you, curling, stroking, hitting that spot that made your back arch and your nails dig into his shoulders.
“Oh, God,” you gasped, your head falling back, your eyes fluttering closed.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
You obeyed, your eyes snapping open, locking onto his as he continued to work you with his fingers. “I want you to watch me.”
He slid down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You felt his breath against the inside of your thigh, his stubble rough and exquisite against your soft skin. He spread you wider with his thumbs, his eyes locked onto yours as he leaned in and tasted you.
You cried out, your hips bucking as his tongue flicked against your clit, his fingers still moving inside you, curling and stroking, driving you higher and higher.
"Morpheus," you panted, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. "Please, please, don't stop."
He growled against you, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to touch you, exactly how to drive you wild.
"I would never, my love," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive flesh, sending shivers down your spine and setting off explosions of pleasure in your brain. "I will never stop."
And he didn't.
He didn't stop as he slipped another finger inside you, curling them upwards, pressing against that spot that had you seeing stars.
He didn't stop as he sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it with practiced ease, each stroke sending tendrils of pleasure snaking through your body.
He didn't stop as he looked up at you, his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze dark and intense and filled with a hunger that matched your own.
Until, finally , you couldn't take it anymore. You couldn't take the slow, deliberate way he was driving you to the edge, not with the way you were feeling, not with the need that was building inside you.
"Morpheus," you gasped, your voice thick with desire. "Please. I need you inside me. Now."
He lifted his head, his lips wet, his eyes hot. "As you wish, my wife."
He stood, untying his pants with quick, sure movements, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched, your breath coming in short pants, as he pushed them down, revealing his hard length.
The sight of him, naked and aroused, made your heart pound harder. He was magnificent, thick and long, the tip glistening with pre-cum.
You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing against his, your tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting him. He groaned, low and deep, his hands going to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.
"I want you," you whispered against his mouth. "I want you inside me." Then you pushed him onto his back and straddled him, your hands on his chest, your eyes locked onto his. You felt his length, hard and hot, pressing against your slick entrance. You rubbed against him, a low moan escaping your lips as the sensation sent shivers down your spine.
"My wife ," he growled, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as you took him in, inch by slow inch. "My lover. My everything."
You threw your head back, gasping as he filled you completely, the sensation of him stretching you, claiming you, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body.
"God, Morpheus," you panted, your hands gripping his chest, your nails digging into his skin. "You feel so good."
"As do you, my queen ," Morpheus murmured, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through you.
You began to move, slowly at first, your hips circling as you lifted and lowered yourself onto him.
He groaned, his hands gripping your hips tighter, his eyes dark and intense as they watched you.
"That's it, my love. Ride me."
You did, your body moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you took him deeper with each thrust. The sensation of him inside you was overwhelming, the feeling of being so full, so connected, so utterly consumed by him.
was considered a short session for him. "You've barely begun."
He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through your body. He leaned in and kissed you, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming you, possessing you. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted like you—like sex and desire and something darker, deeper.
He pulled back, his eyes wild, his breath coming in harsh gasps. "You are a temptress, my love," he murmured, his voice like velvet wrapped around granite.