He drove into her, the slap of his hips against her skin the only sound in the chamber. The footsteps were gone, leaving only the ragged wet breathing and the heat of him buried deep. She braced herself against the marble, taking him, her body a vessel for the hunger he held leashed until this moment.
Then he stopped. She felt him reach down, grip her hips, pull her upright against his chest. His arm locked around her waist and he lifted her from the water in a single, fluid motion.
The air hit her wet skin, cool and sharp. Her legs hung loose, slick against his thighs. He carried her across the marble, his boots silent on the stone, past the open door where the corridor breathed its empty darkness.
The low bed against the far wall swallowed her as he laid her down. The silk coverlet was cold beneath her back, a shock against her heated skin. Her dark hair spread across the pillow in a wet spill. She watched him through the haze of her own pulse.
He didn't say a word. He simply looked at her. Then he knelt at the foot of the bed, and the sight of him there — broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, still in his damp tunic — sent a fresh wave of heat straight to her center.
His hands slid up her inner thighs, parting them, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh where she was still slick and swollen from the bath. She felt the cool air against her wet center, felt herself open for him, and the small sound that escaped her throat was not quite a word.
He lowered his mouth without hesitation.
The first stroke of his tongue was flat and warm, deliberate, finding her clit in one slow, unhurried glide that made her hips rise off the silk. Her fingers twisted in the coverlet, knuckles white, as he circled her with the same controlled intensity he brought to everything—his stubble scraping her inner thigh, his tongue pressing, tasting, drawing her closer to the edge with each pass.
She heard herself whimper. A broken, shameless sound that echoed off the marble walls.
His hands gripped her hips, held her open, held her still as his mouth worked her. He was thorough. Methodical. As if he had all night and meant to memorize every inch of her with his tongue. The tip traced her folds, dipped inside her just enough to make her gasp, then returned to her clit in a slow, circling pressure that made her vision blur at the edges.
"Adil—" His name came out ragged, half a plea.
He hummed against her, a low sound of approval, and the vibration sent a jolt through her core. Her back arched, her thighs tightening around his head, and he responded by pressing his tongue harder, faster, his fingers digging into her hips as if he meant to anchor her to the bed.
She was close. She could feel it building, a pressure coiling low and hot, spreading through her belly, her chest, her fingertips. The silk was damp beneath her. The air was thick with the scent of her and the water still cooling on her skin.
He pulled back.
She gasped, a raw sound of protest, and looked down at him. His mouth was wet, his dark eyes fixed on hers, his jaw glistening in the lamplight. He didn't smile. He simply watched her—waiting, patient, in control—and she understood.
"Please," she said. The word cost her nothing. She meant it.
His mouth returned, and this time he didn't stop. His tongue circled her clit in a steady rhythm, relentless, his lips closing around her, sucking gently as his fingers pressed into her entrance, one, then two, curling against that spot inside her that made her see stars. She cried out, her hips grinding against his face, her hands finding his hair and gripping tight as the pressure built and built and built until it broke.
She came with a sound she didn't recognize—a broken, keening moan that filled the chamber as her body arched off the bed, her cunt clenching around his fingers, her thighs trembling against his ears. He didn't stop. He worked her through it, his tongue slowing, softening, drawing out every last shudder until she collapsed against the silk, breathless and shaking.
He lifted his head. His mouth was slick, his eyes dark and hungry. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking her gaze.
"The door," she whispered, still catching her breath.
He didn't turn to look at it. He simply rose, crossed the marble in three long strides, and pushed it closed. The latch clicked into place.
When he turned back, something in his face had shifted. The restraint was gone. In its place was a raw, unguarded hunger that made her breath catch all over again.