Lexa
Kaleb lets go of my wrists, but I’m boneless as he draws a line down the column of my throat with his tongue. He’s kneeling on the bed with my legs splayed over his thighs. His massive, warm hands smooth up my legs, bunching the fabric of my gown until it’s pooled around my waist. Every movement is slow, controlled, like he’s questioning how far he’s willing to take this or savoring the moment.
I’ve done this before. Had sex. It was a fumbling, slightly drunken compilation of events. Exciting and heated–but there hadn’t been… this. This slow, exploratory worship. No sucking kisses in a line down to my navel. Nothing that made my muscles weak and my toes curl like everything Kaleb is doing, like he already knows exactly how to touch me, like he’s already mapped every inch of my body.
I gasp a shallow breath, my eyes hooded and heavy, when his fingers brush over my pussy–the lightest touch over my panties. I’d beg at this point. I’d get on my knees and say whatever he wants, do whatever he wants…
“Are you on contraceptive drafts?”
“No–no, I’m not.”
Through my hazy, heated vision, I notice the beat of hesitation in his eyes. He bows his head, his hands braced on either side of my hips. I scooch back to sit up, but he grips my lower leg.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I–it’s nothing.” He meets my eyes, his gaze heated, still dripping with desire. “Lie down, Lexa.”
“I–” Now, I’m the one fumbling over my words. His eyes are bright, vibrant amber-hazel, shining like embers in the rainy morning light. “I’ve done this before. I’ve been with a man before.”
Another quick arch of his brow. I wait for him to back off, to say something demeaning, but he smoothes his hands back down my thighs, tugging my panties off, and the rush of cool air is a shock to my system.
“I don’t give a fuck about that,” he whispers, his voice low and simmering.
“Then why–why did you hesitate–”
“Because I could hurt you. Easily.” There’s a new fire in his eyes, something damning, something akin to regret, maybe even fear.
“You can’t hurt me–”
“Maybe not now,” he says, dipping his head to press the words against my belly. “Months from now, though.”
I close my eyes as his kisses dip lower, pressed beneath my navel, my hips bones. A gentle, easy kind of pleasure ripples over my skin, but my body’s tight with anticipation. I reach for him, smoothing my fingers through his thick, dark hair, but his mouth hovers just below my belly button, and his breath on my skin is nearly enough to send me over the edge of no return already.
“What do you mean?” I ask with great effort, but my voice is miniscule, barely audible.
Another kiss, this time to my inner thigh. “I can’t risk getting you pregnant.”
I nearly reply, nearly tell him he’s thinking too far ahead, but he steals any words from my lips in an instant, his mouth closing over my sex.
The noise that follows–I’ve never heard it leave my mouth before. I feel my body sinking into the mattress, unable to move, unable to think past the feeling of his tongue parting my folds, his mouth hot and wanting. He shudders, gripping my thighs like he’s holding on for dear life, trying to keep himself restrained, and when he growls… gods, the vibration…
I mouth his name as my eyelids flutter shut. My legs strain to close around him, but he pries them open again, growling with satisfaction as he draws his tongue through my folds again, slow, exploratory licks that leave me breathless.
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never felt this before. When his tongue slides in a slow, expertly executed circle over my clit, I nearly cave in on myself.
I hiss out a breath, arching my back toward him, chasing the friction he’s creating, and he grabs my hips, meeting the arch, lifting my legs until they’re resting over his shoulder and he doubles down on his efforts and I am… lost to the sensation.
One of his hands snakes over my stomach to grasp my breast, kneading, his calloused hands rough on my soft, tender flesh.
“Kaleb?” I moan, my breath coming in short, hollow rasps as the tension builds so strongly I’m unable to move, terrified to lose the feeling growing so acutely I might actually cry.
He groans against my folds, and then his other hand drops from my thigh, his fingers leaving heat in their wake.
He presses two fingers inside of me, and I bite down on a scream of pleasure that I’m sure will wake the entire city if I’m not careful. I lift off the mattress again, writhing and whimpering, and he loves it. I feel him smile against my pussy, working his fingers in and out while ravishing my clit with his tongue–sucking, nibbling, drawing me closer to the edge and expertly pulling me back just before the fireworks draw out the moment.
“I’ve wondered,” he says against my skin before licking up my slit again in a torturously slow swipe, “what you’d taste like.”
“Oh, Goddess,” I whine, gasping as he presses a third finger inside of me. It’s almost too much. The stretch is enough to finally shove me over the edge, and when my body jerks, pleasure washing over me like a rogue wave, Kaleb groans against the current, shuddering while my inner walls spasm around his fingers. The pleasure rocks me to my center and expands until even my fingertips feel electric. I’m unable to catch my breath when he finally rises from between my knees, his mouth closing on my inner thigh in a soft bite, like he hasn’t quite had enough.
I grab his shirt and pull him back to me, our mouths meeting in a crash, teeth and tongues clashing. I find the outline of his cock–hard as steel and straining against his pants. I press the base of my hand up his length, my body trembling with the promise of him filling me, stretching me to the point of pain. I want it so badly.
But he stops me, clutching my wrist, and pulls away.
“Kaleb, I want–”
“We can’t,” he says against my mouth.
Confusion, and a lick of anger, mute the lingering waves of pleasure and white-hot desire still washing through my body. He rises, adjusts my gown, and steps off the bed, turning just as a door somewhere levels below us opens and closes with a crack, followed by hurrying but light footfalls on the stairs that can only belong to Lis.
I pull the sheets over my body, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room while he runs his fingers through his hair, looking down at me, but I’m looking at myself, seeing the mess he’s currently smirking at. My hair is… insane–a wild mane of deep brown curls with hints of wine red curling in a halo around my face. My cheeks are flushed crimson, and my skin glows faintly with a hint of sweat as I tear my gaze from my reflection and meet his eyes.
He turns, giving me his back, and slips through the door, closing it behind him with a snap just as Lis’s voice rings out, but muffled, too distorted for me to hear.
***
Kaleb
Lis, out of breath and pink in the face, cradling the growing swell of her pregnancy, grips the banister as she pants, glowering up at me.
“You shouldn’t be moving like that in your condition.”
She arches a thin, dark blonde brow. “What’re you up to?”
I roll my lower lip between my teeth, one hand resting on the railing, discreetly positioning my body in a way that hides what, exactly, I’d been up to, but I can taste Lexa on my tongue when I reply, “Making sure Lexa is resting.”
“Uh huh,” Lis says, her eyes narrowed to cat-like slits. “A messager came to the gate for you–”
“I’m aware Silas needs to see me–”
“From the king. He’s demanding your presence immediately.”
Fuck. I step past her onto the stairs, commanding over my shoulder, “Keep her here in the house, preferably in my room. Make sure she’s resting.”
“I’m sure I won’t do nearly as good of a job at that as you’ve been!” she cackles, and my cheeks heat, but I’m already on the second floor landing by the time her laugh fades, and the reality of what just happened sets it.
I try to shake the echoes of want from my mind as I step into the rain, which feels foreign on my skin. I don’t just claim women. It’s not something I allow myself. I tell myself I’m too busy, and I am, if I’m being completely honest. Sure, I’ve occasionally given in to my needs, my desires, but only when it’s been so long that I can’t remember the feeling of smooth, soft skin beneath my hands. There’s too much at stake, too many risks to make it a regular thing.
I normally don’t even think about it. I’ve trained my mind to quickly banish those thoughts.
That training proved null the second I saw Lexa sprint around the arena, swinging that chain, and only grew in the days and weeks since then. The arrow pointed at the king. The way my men–warriors of the fiercest design–cower in her presence. The orange dress. The fork in the hand of a man three times her size–something she did without hesitation.
Freeing that dragon and breaking her arm in the process, oblivious to the pain until a day later, when she finally allowed herself to feel anything at all.
I let myself act on the desires that have been keeping me up at night, damning myself to the truth of our situation. I cannot keep her. Even if she wins these brutal games, I will lose her because she is not meant for the same cage I can’t escape, and I won’t allow her to stay. I will die before she stays.
The king is resting on his throne when I arrive in his gilded palace atop the arena and tunnels carved by slaves. Sponsors and trainers linger, uneasy, and there’re so few of us now. Only seven victors remain out of the twenty that survived the Culling. The king doesn’t even look at me as he announces the next Trial will be in a week’s time. He also mentions a ball that will be held for the benefactors–the high lords who fund his twisted entertainment–which each of us, and our victors, are being forced to attend… tomorrow night. Only then do his eyes slide to mine, a silent warning for my victor to behave, or else.
She won’t. I already know it. I eye Meg’s sponsor as he grins, speaking in quiet tones to the fae male standing next to him.
Normally, I don’t have free access to the capital city of Pantharas. I can’t move freely here and require an escort, but today has been different. I leave the palace, prepared to take the tunnels near the arena back to the Glade, but I’m stopped by a fae guard who slips me a note before turning and walking away.
I read it quickly, absorbing Silas’s handwriting, his quick, concise message, and toss the piece of paper into a sconce as I walk out of the palace and into the city center instead, the paper melting into the magic that lights the city, burning it.
Fae guards turn their backs to me instead of questioning why I, the halfling king of the slaves, is walking where I’m not allowed, and I realize how deeply Silas’s influence has trickled in the last few weeks. The king has no idea about the serpent that lurks in his court, does he?
Silas’s manor rises in the center of the city. The sun sinks toward the horizon again. His message initially chastised me for not coming to speak to him before he left last night, but then it bled into instructions about the upcoming ball, about the gown he had commissioned for Lexa and his opinions on what I should wear, like I’ll listen.
He mentioned a guest now taking up residence at his manor in his absence and that he’ll return by the finale of the Trials. I’m supposed to come… say hello, according to Silas, and not be so rude, or however he worded it.
That guest doesn’t greet me when I step into the foyer and turn to the wide, airy reception room to a man seated in an armchair, books splayed across a table in front of him.
The man with violet eyes looks up, meeting my gaze.
“Who are you?” I ask, not warmly like Silas would have preferred, and he gives me the slightest lift of his lips in answer.
“You can call me the Architect.”
I feel an odd, unsteady sensation grip my body as I look down at what used to be pristine, light wood floorboards now stained heavily with blood. My stomach twists as I look back at the man, asking, “What happened here?”
“A miracle.”