The cold, polished wood of his desk seared her bare thighs as he lifted her onto it.

Elara gasped, the shock of the surface a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between her legs. Her hands flew back, palms flat against the dark, smooth grain to steady herself. Alistair stood between her parted knees, a tower of pale skin and dark intent, his own clothing finally shed. The sight of him fully naked, his cock hard and straining against his stomach, made her breath catch in her throat.

He didn’t speak. His obsidian eyes held hers as his hands slid up her outer thighs, his touch possessive, mapping her. His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin near her hips, and she trembled.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice a low baritone that vibrated in the silent room.

She did. She couldn’t look away.

He shifted closer. The first blunt pressure of him against her entrance was a world-ending promise. It was an acknowledgment, a question, and a threat all in one. She was slick, aching, her body clenching around nothing, begging for the fullness. He held there, letting her feel the shape of him, the heat, the impossible stretch to come.

“Please,” she whispered, the word torn from her.

Alistair’s lips curved, a sharp, hungry thing. He pushed inside with a single, devastating thrust.

The stretch was profound, blinding. Elara cried out, her head falling back, her fingers scrambling against the desk. He filled her completely, a claiming so deep she saw stars behind her eyelids. It was possession, not joining. He seated himself to the hilt and went still, letting her body adjust, letting her feel every inch of him buried inside her.

“Mine,” he breathed against her temple, the word more vibration than sound.

Then he began to move.

It was a slow, deliberate withdrawal followed by a deep, rolling thrust. The friction was exquisite, a slick, hot drag that made her toes curl. Each movement was controlled, measured, designed to make her feel everything. The wet sound of their joining filled the space between their ragged breaths.

His mouth found the column of her throat, his lips cool against her flushed skin. He inhaled deeply, the predator scenting his prey. But he didn’t bite. He laved a path downward with his tongue, tracing her collarbone.

His pace remained relentless, each thrust rocking her body forward on the desk. Her breasts swayed with the motion, and his gaze dropped, fixated. He lowered his head, his dark hair brushing her skin.

His mouth closed over one peaked nipple.

Elara gasped, her back arching off the wood. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, filling rhythm below and the suction, hot and demanding, above. He suckled, his tongue working, and the sweet, forbidden pressure built within her breast. A thin, warm trickle released into his mouth.

Alistair groaned, the sound raw and hungry against her skin. The vibration traveled straight to her core. He fed, drawing the sweet milk from her with deep pulls, his hips never ceasing their steady, penetrating rhythm. It was sustenance and sin, a primal circuit of giving and taking that left her dizzy.

He switched to her other breast, his hand coming up to cradle the weight he’d just abandoned. His thumb stroked the wet nipple, smearing a drop of milk across her skin before he took her into his mouth again. His feeding grew more urgent, his sucks deeper, and his thrusts began to lose their measured control.

The coil of her denied climax, so carefully wound by his mouth earlier, tightened anew. It burned brighter, fed by the relentless friction and the intimate pull of his lips. She was climbing, helpless, her moans becoming pleas, her hands fisting in his hair.

“Alistair,” she choked out.

He released her breast with a wet sound, his lips glistening. He looked up at her, his eyes black pools of need. “Come for me, Elara.”

His command, coupled with a sudden, brutal angle of his hips, shattered her. The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of blinding release, her inner muscles clamping down around his cock in rhythmic pulses. She screamed, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

He watched her unravel, his movements turning hard and fast, chasing his own end. As her spasms began to subside, he buried his face in her neck again, his fangs scraping delicately over her pounding pulse.

He thrust once, twice more, then stilled deep inside her with a ragged groan. She felt the hot spill of his release, the final claim. His body shuddered against hers, his weight heavy and real.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing in the dark room. The scent of sex and sweet milk hung in the air. Slowly, he lifted his head from her neck. His lips were stained with her. His eyes, when they met hers, held a look of awestruck ruin.

He was still inside her. He made no move to withdraw.

Slowly, carefully, Alistair withdrew from her body.

The separation felt profound, a loss of heat and connection that made Elara gasp softly. He slid his arms beneath her knees and back, lifting her from the desk as if she weighed nothing. Her limbs were liquid, boneless. She could only rest her head against his shoulder, her face pressed into the cool skin of his neck.

He carried her the short distance to the massive four-poster bed, its dark velvet curtains drawn back. He laid her on the cool sheets, then climbed in beside her, gathering her against his chest. His body was a solid line of heat at her back, one arm draped heavily over her waist, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach.

For a long time, they simply breathed. The only sounds were the slowing rhythm of their hearts and the distant sigh of the castle settling into the deep night.

The scent of them was everywhere. Sex. Sweat. The faint, sweet perfume of her milk on his lips and chin. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every point of contact with his body humming.

His thumb began to move, a slow, absent stroke across the soft plane of her belly. It traced idle patterns through the dampness there—a mixture of his release and her own arousal.

“You are real,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough with disuse.

Elara didn’t answer. She was too busy feeling the truth of his statement in her own aching body. The stretch. The fullness now gone. The deep, satisfied throb between her legs.

His hand drifted upward, his fingers skimming the underside of her breast. He cupped its weight, his touch reverent. His palm was cool, a contrast to the heat he’d left there.

“It’s still here,” he said, wonder in his tone. His thumb brushed over her nipple, which peaked instantly under the attention. A fresh bead of milk welled, pearling in the dim light.

He shifted behind her, rising up on one elbow. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, roaming over the landscape of her body in the shadows.

“Look at you,” he breathed.

Elara kept her eyes closed. She felt exposed, more so now in the quiet aftermath than she had been on the desk. Then, it was about hunger and claiming. Now, it was about seeing.

His finger caught the drop of milk and brought it to his mouth. He tasted it slowly, his eyes never leaving her. “Sustenance,” he whispered. “And sacrament.”

He lowered his head and his tongue lapped gently at her nipple, cleaning the lingering evidence. There was no urgency now, only a deep, curious savoring. The suction was gentle, a slow pull that drew a soft sigh from her. It was a different kind of intimacy, tender and thorough.

When he finished, he rested his cheek against her breast, listening. His dark hair was soft against her skin.

“I have existed in twilight for three centuries,” he said, his voice a low vibration against her. “A spectator to life. Your warmth… it is a sun I had forgotten.”

Elara finally opened her eyes, staring up at the dark canopy. Her hand came up, tentative, and her fingers slid into his hair. It was silkier than she’d imagined.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat. “You knew what you were doing,” he stated, no accusation, only awe. “With your skirts. Your necklines.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to be seen,” she whispered. “By you.”

Alistair went very still. Then he moved, rolling her onto her back so he could look down at her. His obsidian eyes searched her face, the awestruck ruin in them giving way to something sharper, more vulnerable.

“You have ruined me,” he said, the words a confession. “I will crave no other vintage. Only this.” His hand returned to her breast, his touch claiming, but his eyes were laid bare. “Only you.”

He lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was deep, slow, and tasted of her—of milk and salt and surrender. It was a seal. A promise. When he broke it, he did not go far, his forehead resting against hers.

“Stay,” he commanded, but it sounded like a plea. “The night is not over. I am not done.”

His hand slid down her body, over the curve of her hip, along the softness of her inner thigh. He nudged her legs apart. His fingers found her core, slick and swollen, and he groaned into her mouth.

“You are still so ready,” he murmured, his fingers tracing her folds with a possessive familiarity. “Still mine.”

Elara arched into his touch, a fresh, aching need stirring from the embers of her spent climax. “Yours,” she breathed, the word a surrender and a truth.

He kissed her again, harder this time, as his fingers began to move in a slow, circling rhythm that promised another ascent. The claiming, it seemed, was not a single act. It was a state of being. And it had only just begun.

His mouth left hers, trailing a hot, wet path down her throat, over the pounding of her pulse, and lower. He shifted his weight, his body sliding down the bed until his head was between her thighs. The cool air of the chamber kissed her damp skin, and she shivered.

“Alistair—”

His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place. “Be still.”

He didn’t look at her. His focus was absolute, a predator studying his feast. His breath ghosted over her, and she felt herself clench in anticipation.

Then his tongue touched her.

It was a flat, slow stroke from bottom to top, gathering her wetness. He hummed, the vibration against her sensitive flesh making her gasp. He did it again, slower, savoring the taste. “Even here,” he murmured against her, his voice thick. “You are sweet.”

He began to fuck her with his tongue.

It wasn’t teasing. It was deliberate, deep penetration. He pushed inside her, his tongue firm and relentless, mimicking the thrust of a cock. The stretch was different, intimate and shocking. She cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets.

He withdrew slowly, then plunged again. And again. A steady, rhythmic claiming. Each thrust was followed by a broad, lapping stroke that circled her clit, keeping the pleasure coiled tight, denying it release. He was mapping her, learning the shape of her from the inside.

The wet, slick sounds filled the silent room. Her hips tried to move, to meet him, but his grip on her was iron. She was pinned, utterly at the mercy of his mouth. The vulnerability was dizzying. He owned this. He owned her.

“Please,” she whimpered, not sure what she was begging for—more, or mercy, or an end to the exquisite torture.

He ignored her plea, his pace unyielding. His nose pressed against her, his breath hot. She could feel the cool brush of his hair against her inner thighs. The dual sensations—the deep, penetrating thrusts and the occasional, maddening flick over her clit—built a pressure inside her that was nearing a breaking point.

Just as her muscles began to tighten, trembling on the edge, he stopped.

He pulled back, his lips glistening. He looked up her body, his obsidian eyes blacker than the shadows. “No,” he said simply. “Not yet.”

He moved over her again, his body aligning with hers. The hard, heavy length of him pressed against her thigh, hot and insistent. He was fully erect, the head of his cock slick with his own need. He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt pressure a promise of what was to come.

He held himself there, not pushing, just letting her feel him. “Tell me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.

Elara’s mind was fogged with want. “Tell you what?”

“Who you belong to.”

She looked up at him, at the ancient hunger and the newfound vulnerability warring in his face. “You,” she breathed. “Only you.”

He drove into her with a single, devastating thrust.

The stretch was profound, a filling so complete it stole the air from her lungs. She saw stars behind her eyelids. He was larger than his tongue, harder, and he sheathed himself to the hilt in one smooth, possessive motion. There was no gentleness, only a claiming as absolute as the one with his mouth.

He went still, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his control. A low groan tore from his chest. “Gods,” he choked out. “Elara.”

Her name on his lips was a prayer and a curse. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing to erase any space between them. He began to move.