Aon did not believe in kindness. It was merely the absence of cruelty. And certainly, he did not think the Ancients ever paid him any such thing that might even resemble such a thing.
But here, now, holding her, he was reconsidering his opinion.
Lydia was alive.
When he had found her, asleep in the Temple of Dreams, both the woman and the building resurrected from the void, he had not known what to expect. What could have happened to her in the act of returning from true death?
Certainly, she had lost her mind in the ordeal. There was no chance in his opinion that she came out of that pit unscathed. He had only experienced a return from a fake death, never from what she had suffered.
Or, at the very least, he feared she would despise him and carry with her now the innate and intrinsic disgust towards him that all others bore when they rose from the pool, hand in hand with the ink they now wore.
Instead, he found that neither of these things were true. Unfathomably, she was…unchanged. Terrified, disoriented, distrustful and wounded, yes. But who would not be so? She had died. She had been a corpse, made such by the hands of those she had just been beginning to trust, in a world she was just coming to accept.
He had believed her gone. She had been gone. It was not a fallacy, a trick, or a lie. She had been dead. Her lips that were like a drug to him had been cold. Now, he tasted them again, warm and pleading with him for more. Her breath pooled against his face. It was still so novel, so foreign to him, to feel such a thing.
Now that he had known her lips, he knew that to be devoid of them once more would spell his ruin. He was an addict, and to be robbed a second time would be to kill him.
So how could he resist tasting her again? But the spell he had so carefully crafted to remove her vision would no longer work on her, he knew. She wore the marks of a queen, and although her body was devoid of the marks she should bear elsewhere, it mattered not. He did not have the time, nor the desire, to build a new spell to hide her vision.
Besides, if she were to peek—if she were to open her eyes and see his face—he would rejoice. He loved her. With all his cold, hateful heart, he loved her. And if she stole a glance at him…he would have an excuse to punish her.
Wicked visions came to his mind that ignited in him such a heady, overwhelming fire he nearly threw her to the ground where she stood and took her right then. Images played through his mind of how he wished to strap her to his machines and let them keep her on the knife’s edge of release. Leaving her begging and crying for him to let her crest, only to leave her there…and now, he could do it to her for days.
She bore the marks of a queen.
She was no longer fragile.
How he wished to teach her the extents of her newfound endurance. Oh, how beautiful she would be, bound to his slab, while he took his fill from that fiendishly skillful mouth of hers again, and again. How he wanted to bend her body to his will until she cried and offered up the world and the moons to him, if he would only mount her.
She had not been in his arms for more than five minutes, and already he was devising new ways to torment her! He nearly laughed at himself. He would have, if he were not currently trying to kiss the life back out of her.
All the while, his little dragonfly was holding on to his lapel, clutching to him in trepidation, her eyes shut tight as if she might slip. He tried not to grin. He failed. He broke away from her lips only so that he might trail his kisses down over her shoulder. She shuddered in his arms, and he cinched her tighter to him, and he felt the tension in her body slacken just barely at the gesture.
Lydia was alive. She was still his. She still trembled in his arms. It was impossible…yet if this were his final descent into madness—oh, let it be like this.
She may claim she was uncertain of her trust for him, and it was wise. But her body told a different story, as she let herself lean into him, her soft breasts pressing against his chest. Hunger roared to the surface. They had taken her from him. He would take her back.
“I believed I would never taste your skin again. I thought I would never hold you…feel you…or hear your voice cry my name.” His voice was as dark as his intentions, and he expected her to tense, to pull away from him. It would have been the sane thing to do. But instead, the beautiful child tilted her head back further, giving him more room to devour her skin. Her hands tightened in his lapel, and she was shivering in his grasp. She clearly wanted him…needed him…just as much in return.
If he thought his heart could burst in his chest unprompted, it would have been in this moment. He pressed the tips of his claws into her hip, digging in enough to sting, but not enough to break the skin—there would be time enough for that later. Instead of squirming away, she pressed in tighter to him.
Oh, my dragonfly, you will be the death of me.
How he wanted to chain her, bind her, ravish her. All of her. Change his form and take her in every way a man, or beast, could take a woman. Call forth his shadowy powers and claim her as he had always wished to do, but that his burgeoning love for her and her irritating mortality had never allowed.
But now, they had all the time in the world.
These things must be done gradually—each moment savored.
His games were shoved to the back of his mind as the need for her pushed him forward. He did not have the patience to play with her tonight. There had been such an empty cavern of loneliness and pain left behind by her death, and he needed to fill it. He needed it mended. And he needed her.
Hooking his hand around her throat, he put the smallest bit of pressure against her. He tilted her back into his arm, sending her just ever-so-slightly off balance, causing her to cling to him now in earnest.
If she did not trust him, she could throw a leg back to straighten herself up.
If she truly did not trust him, she could open her eyes and fight him.
She did neither of those things. Instead, her lips parted as she fought for breath, and she let him arch her backward, jutting those beautiful, delicious breasts up towards him, hardened buds visible through the thin black dress he had given her to wear. Temping him…teasing him.
He was not one to resist temptation.
Lowering his clawed hand, he sliced open the top half of her dress, clear down the center, tearing the fabric easily with the sharp edge. He took his time. He wanted to watch her as he worked. She tucked her chin, her hands grasping tightly onto him. But she did not open her eyes. She didn’t straighten her back. She let out the smallest whimper as he—quite purposefully—nicked the skin in the valley between his current obsession.
Leaning down his head, she let out a heated moan and let her head fall back as he ran his tongue slowly up the cut, tasting her. As a mortal, she had tasted exquisite. As a queen…she was divine.
The noise that escaped her went straight through him like wildfire. Parting her torn dress, he grasped her breast in his hand. He was none-too-gentle about it either. The girl had a wonderful pain tolerance before, and now he wished to see if it had improved. If so, he would consider himself well and truly blessed by the Ancients.
As he kneaded and squeezed, he let his lips capture the other rose-colored bud, lest it feel abandoned in his attentions. She cried out sharply as he dug his teeth into the tender flesh, before easing her pain with a roll of his tongue.
He felt her hand slip over his shoulder, holding onto him for dear life. When the fingers of her other hand laced into his hair, he expected her to yank his head away. Instead…oh, by the Ancients…she pressed him tighter to her.
“Aon,” she moaned breathlessly.
She trusted him.
She wanted him.
She needed this too.
His arousal was painful, the way it throbbed. The way it begged for freedom, and for her. His body was flushed and overheated. His heart was pounding away in his chest like a drum, urging him forward, in time with the surge of his desire. He had never, once in his life, been brought to an inferno quite like that which Lydia could inspire in him.
He ground himself up against her, needing contact to his tortured organ. Still, he did not relent from torturing her soft orbs. She moaned again, whimpering, and when he looked up to her face, she was lost in bliss and need. Her eyes were still shut.
“Please…” she whispered. “Aon.”
If he had not loved her before, it would have happened then. As it was, he nearly wept. Wept for that he had lost her. Wept for that he had found her. Wept for what she was giving him now.
He straightened her up and skimmed his hands over her body. Gooseflesh broke out beneath his touch, and she was shivering. Wordlessly, he slipped her dress from her shoulders, useless and torn as it now was, and let it pool around her feet.
She bore no other marks of a queen, he confirmed once more. A mystery for another day. Now, he could not be bothered to spare an ounce of thought over it. Instead, he shucked his own clothing, and nearly breathed a sigh of relief when his straining arousal was finally let free of its confines.
He reached down and took her hand. She jumped at the sudden contact, and he chuckled darkly. How he would always scare her. A demon in the darkness—one that had seduced her—but one that remained so dangerous.
Good.
He would have it no other way.
Leading her to the cot he had brought to the chamber for her, he sat down upon the edge. He would worship her this night—his queen—his Lydia. His former mortal and true miracle.
The woman he loved.
Is this what it felt like? To love? To feel as though his heart would burst? It was agony, it was suffering…it was ecstasy.
He guided her to straddle him and put her hands upon his shoulders and let her use him for balance. Slipping his hands up her thighs, he wandered his hands to her rump and squeezed her painfully. She squeaked and threw herself forward, reflexively trying to escape his grasp. Which pushed her straight into his chest.
Chuckling again, he set himself to devouring her wonderful breasts, biting at them, making her cry out in agony before kissing away the pain. All while his hands groped and soothed, squeezed, pinched and petted her.
Not once did she beg for mercy. So, naturally, he pushed her further. He raked his claws down her back, nearly breaking the skin but stopping just short. She arched her back, pressing her chest against him, crying out loudly. But not in pain. At least, not entirely. It was the perfect mix of torment and joy. He did it a second time, diagonally intersecting the first set of red welts he knew he was leaving on her pale flesh.
“You are beautiful,” he admitted breathlessly to her. “Utterly perfect…”
A third time, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding onto him for dear life, even as he was the source of her writhing. Clutching him for support and relief.
He nearly spent himself in that moment. It was like lightning, what he felt tearing through him. He needed her. And he needed her now. He had no doubt in the world that she was ready for him. And at this moment, to be frank, he did not quite care if the case were otherwise.
He spread his legs. She squeaked in surprise as her own legs were forced apart where she straddled him. It forced her onto her knees on the cot to either side of him, her body pressed against his chest, and he looked up at her as she knelt over him.
By all the moons in the sky, she took his breath away.
And still she kept her eyes shut. He would see how long that would last. How he would relish spanking her for disobedience if she lost control. This was his favorite scenario—one in which he won no matter the outcome.
Taking her by the thighs, he guided her to kneel over his lap. She hung onto him, both eager and afraid. With one hand, he his length steady, and with the clawed hand, he pressed it to her hip, urging her lower.
As she obeyed him, the inferno of her body pressed against him. She was like a pool of lava, and he moaned, burying his head into her shoulder, as the first part of him slipped inside of her. Feeling her spread for him, part for him, as he bored into her immense heat, inch by torturously wonderful inch.
He took her hips now with both hands, and he was impatient to fill her, as he always was. He pressed her own against him, nearly with his full strength. Their cries of pleasure mingled, and hers tinged by pain, as he rammed against her end.
He was just—just—too much for her. He had to press her down to seat himself entirely within her. But as she quivered against and around him, he knew she relished it just as much as he did.
It was his own manner of torture, not pounding her into oblivion as he wished to do. Instead he guided her motions, as she lifted and fell atop him. He aided her, lifting her weight and occasionally ramming her back down against him, burying himself to the hilt, making her gasp and wail in pleasure.
But she had an equal hand in this. She was moving against him with just as much fervor, impaling herself on him. His body was throbbing, pulsing, threatening to let loose to soon. Pleasure was arcing through him like a storm with each undulation of her tight body.
He found himself moaning her name without realizing it. Her hands found his face, and shortly after, her lips caught his, kissing him with abandon. For the first time, she kissed him. His heart hitched, and he was left stunned as her tongue pressed into his mouth. His little hellcat was leaving him breathless and moaning as she took and he found himself more than happy to give.
At least for a few moments.
He wound his hand through her hair, wrapping it around his palm, once, twice, and grinned mischievously against her. It was her only warning. He yanked her hair roughly, pulling her head back, and arching her back once more. She cried out, her hands clutching at his shoulders to keep from falling backward.
The angle it provided him was superb. The view, even better. He bit down roughly on her already tortured flesh, and she wailed. He kept at it for a few more minutes, pressing himself to the hilt inside her. But soon, his need wore through his patience like an acid.
He kept the grasp on her hair tight, forcing her backward. He pivoted, slung a leg over the other side of the cot, and threw her onto her back, still not releasing her hair or letting them part where they were joined. If he could, he would stay buried in her for eternity.
He pulled on her hair, forcing her to arch further up against him. Her legs were now around his waist, and he laughed as she whimpered and writhed. He leaned his other hand down onto the cot and shifted his weight, slamming back into her violently. There would be no mercy for her now—no quarter. She was a queen. He let out a shuddering rush of air as he felt her clench around him, tightening like a vise.
“My, my…It seems we’ve grown to like this manner of affection, have we?” I love you, Lydia. I love you more than life itself. He could not say those words, not yet, and so he teased her. Taunted her cruelly.
He was who he was, after all.
She could not speak. She could not find the air. Instead, she wrapped her legs tightly around him, and he could not stifle his broken moan as she cinched her legs around him and pulled him even harder against her. Silently begging him to give them both what they needed. To be as brutal as he wished. To take her how he wanted.
And so, he did. Kissing and biting and licking at whatever he could reach, he took his fill, and gave her all that he was. All that he had. All the pain at her loss, all the agony of her death, all the loneliness, all the joy at her return. All his love, all his wrath, all his cruelty and the kindness he just was beginning to believe existed.
How many times her pleasure crested, he did not know. He had lost count as she writhed and cried beneath him. He had released her hair to hold her and pin her to the cot, keeping her pliant and supple to him.
And oh…how she cried his name. Each time he sent her over the cliff into ecstasy, she threw back her head and his name left her lips like a song to his ears. Finally, he could not take anymore. It seemed that she, too, was at her limit. Her endurance had grown indeed, but they could only continue for so long.
Pleasure like hot liquid iron built in him and threatened to overtake him. He let out a snarl, pinning her down to the cot painfully as his motions became uneven and harsh. He felt his body tighten, felt himself crest, and he rammed himself into her, pressing deep to the root, as hard as he could, harder than he had ever done to her before.
She jolted and cried out soundlessly, her head thrown back and mouth wide, as his presence within her tossed her headlong over that edge into wild abandon once more. Her body quivered and clamped down around him, as if trying to pull him into her whole, and that was the end for him. He felt himself surge, and he let out a wail of release as he fell against her, his head on her shoulder, still relentlessly pressing his whole weight to where they were joined. He would fill her with his essence, useless as it was, and he would make her his.
Even if she left him, he would be certain she would never forget how he felt.
The pleasure made him see stars, and he blinked them away, his body twitching and shuddering in the throws and aftermath, even as he still felt himself pouring into her, painting her.
Still, her legs were clasped around him. She had an equal hand in their union. She was lying breathlessly beneath him, panting, her head thrown to the side, mouth open for air. Her beautiful blonde hair was strewn about her, and her skin shone with sweat, as did his.
He leaned down and kissed a line of ink that she now bore on her cheek. Turquoise ink…impossible and beautiful. He stroked her hair tenderly. Slowly, carefully, he eased his weight off her and began to kiss her gently. Trying, as hard as he could, to tell her how much he loved her by that method alone.
And yet, even through his kisses, he had to fight a smile.
For she had still not opened her eyes.
