Page 152 of Pocket Wife

He kisses me.

It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is the kiss of a man who spent hours watching the woman he loves cross into danger without him, held back by procedure and law and the cruelty of careful words.

His hands catch my jacket, pushing it from my shoulders. The fabric falls to the dusty floor, and I reach for his tunic, my fingers working the fastenings with trembling impatience. He catches my hands, stilling them.

“Let me,” he says.

He pulls the tunic over his head himself, and the movement is almost violent in its urgency. The garment joins mine on the floor, and then I am pressing against him, skin to skin, the cool light of his bioluminescent patterns rising to meet my warmth.

“You glow for me,” I whisper.

“Only for you.”

My hands move down his chest, tracing the light, following the patterns that pulse in time with his heartbeat. I can feel the bond through every point of contact, a current that hums between us, amplifying every breath, every touch, every desperate sound.

His hands find the fastening of my trousers. He works them loose with care, though his fingers shake. The fabric slides down my legs, and I step out of them, kicking them aside. My shirt follows, then his trousers, until nothing remains between us but the bond and the heat.

“Too many layers,” I say.

“You have said that before.”

“You keep ignoring me.”

“I am trying to improve.”

I laugh against his mouth, broken and fierce, and he kisses the sound from my lips. His hands find my waist, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his hips as he carries me to the old hay.

He lays me down with care, though I pull him after me, not wanting even a breath of distance between us. His body covers mine, and I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“Rethan—”

“I know what you need.” His mouth finds my throat, trailing kisses down my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. “I can feel how much this matters through the bond.”

“Then stop talking.”

He smiles against my skin.

His hand moves lower, tracing my stomach, finding me slick and ready. I gasp as his fingers find my clit, stroking in slow circles that make my hips buck against his hand.

“Rethan, please⁠—”

“Do not tell me to hurry.”

“I am not telling you to hurry. I am telling you to touch me.”

He slips one finger inside me, then two, and I cry out, my nails raking his shoulders. He works me slowly, watching my face, learning every flicker of pleasure. The bond echoes my sensation back to him, doubling the heat until he can barely breathe.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

“You belong to yourself,” he says. “But if you choose me, then choose me fully. Not the Authority. Not fear. Me.”

The possessive heat in my voice when I answer undoes him.

“Choose you,” I say. “I choose you, Rethan Veyr. Now stop talking and fuck me.”

He positions himself at my entrance, and I feel him, the heat and weight of him, and I pull him closer with my legs.