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"It's distracting."

"Good."

I should tell him the plants need turning. I should tell him Briar will be back within the hour with the evening trays, that the eastern panes are fogging over and the seedlings will chill. All of it is true, and none of it survives contact with the way he is looking at me.

"You have soil on your cheek," he says.

"I usually do."

"I know." His thumb sweeps it away, and does not leave. "I have decided I like it. It offends everything Sarveth believes a lady should be, and it is entirely you, and I would not trade one for the other."

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's said to me. 'You are pleasingly filthy.'"

"I am a lord. Poetry is beneath my station." He is smiling now, the rare full one that makes him look younger, less like the severe lord the rest of the world sees. "Let me tell you a different story."

"About the Chronicler?"

"About a lord." He shifts, drawing me with him until my back meets the moss and his weight settles over me, careful as always of the scar in his side, careful now of me. "Who built a fortress of black stone and rules and cold calculation, and swore nothing living would ever get inside it. And then a human woman put a flower on his war table and told him his heart was as barren as his strategy."

"She sounds insufferable."

"She was correct." His mouth ghosts along my jaw. "That is worse. He burned the flower. And a week later he found himself keeping a potted plant on his desk, and not knowing why, and unable to make himself throw it out."

"You kept it." I hadn't been sure. He never said.

"I keep it still. It's on the desk beside the council papers, arguing with all of them." He lifts his head to look at me. "You brought a living thing into a room I had built to hold only dead ones. I have not been able to make you leave since. I have stopped trying."

I reach up and pull him down to me. The moss and wool cloaks shift softly beneath us as his weight settles over mine, careful, deliberate. Glass above us filters the late light into pale green and gold, and the air smells of earth and growing plants. Rhysandir’s hair falls forward in that uneven sweep, brushing my cheek, and those black eyes search my face as if he is still learning how to look at me without calculation.

“Slow,” I whisper against his mouth. “I want to feel every part of this.”

“Yes.” His voice is low, almost reverent. He kisses me again, unhurried, lips parting mine with quiet insistence. One large hand slides to the simple ties at my top. He does not yank, instead his fingers work the knots one by one, patient, the backs of his knuckles brushing the soft skin between my breasts as each lace loosens. I feel the fabric ease, cool air touches the upper curve of my chest, and he pauses, eyes on mine, and only when I nod does he draw the edges apart, baring me gradually to the filtered light.

I reach for the fastenings of his own shirt, mirroring his care. The cloth is heavier than mine, the buttons dark and smooth under my fingertips. I free them slowly, revealing the deep brown expanse of his chest inch by inch. Muscle shifts as he breathes, and when the last button gives I push the fabric from his shoulders. He helps with a slight roll, letting the shirt fall away onto the cloaks. His skin is warm, almost fever-hot against my palms as I map the breadth of him. Chaos magic answers the rising quiet between us with the faintest shimmer along his collarbones, like heat haze over summer stone.

He returns to me, sliding the loosened garment down my arms. I lift to help, and the cloth pools at my waist, then lower when he eases it past my hips. I shift so he can draw it free completely, leaving me bare on the soft nest of moss and wool. He sits back on his heels for a moment, simply looking. There is nothing rushed in his gaze as it travels, only attention, almost wonder.

“You are beautiful like this,” he says quietly. “Open… Unarmored.”

I answer by reaching for the remaining clothing covering him. The fastenings of his pants yield under my fingers. He rises onto his knees so I can push the fabric down over the powerful lines of his hips and thighs. When he is free he kicks the garments aside and settles over me once more, skin to skin at last. The contrast of his dark brown body against mine feels deliberate… deliberate and right. His cock rests heavy against my thigh, already half-hard, and the slow pulse of him throbs against me as he leans down to kiss me again.

One large hand slides beneath my waist, the other cups the nape of my neck. He kisses a path from my mouth to my jaw, then lower, open-mouthed and exploratory, tasting the hollow of my throat, the slope of one breast. He follows the freckles scattered over my skin as though they form a route only he can read, lingering over every old scar instead of passing them by. He closes his lips around my nipple and draws gently, and I arch into him with a soft sound. He spends long moments there, alternating sides, learning the exact pressure that makes my breath catch. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him close without urging him faster.

Eventually he travels lower still, kissing my belly, the inside of one hipbone, then settles between my thighs. His tongue lands on my clit, and moves slowly, long, slow licks that turn into circles just on the right spot. Then a gentle suck that draws a broken little moan from my throat. I rock against his mouth, and he holds me steady with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. His tongue presses, and he thrusts a large finger inside.

“Rhysandir—”

“I have you,” he murmurs against me. “Let me.”

He stays there, and the slow build becomes almost unbearable, my hips lift helplessly and my fingers tighten in his hair. A climax is coming, and I tilt hard upward, he thrusts faster and puts another finger inside, stretching me more, and I come. My spine arches, and my whole body jerks from the overwhelming orgasm. I keep his head pushed down and he continues through the waves as they calm.

He rises when my body relaxes, and I reach between us, wrapping my hand around his cock. He is fully hard now, thick and heavy in my grip. I stroke him once, twice, listening to his breath stutter, and watching his black eyes close for a moment. My lips are parted, turned on by how much he is enjoying himself.

“Inside,” I tell him. “I want you inside me.”

I guide his cock to my pussy, and he pushes in with aching slowness, inch by inch, giving me time to feel every stretch, every ridge. I drop back as he pushes in, and he rises to his knees.

He lifts my ankles onto his shoulders, and we both stare at each other as he reaches the full depth.