He watched carefully as she took the fruit and a small knife, carving it in half. She looked up at him then, bringing two of the seeds to her mouth. The light hit them, making them shine brilliant translucent red against her lips, and then she put them on her tongue.
He couldn’t breathe.
She smiled ever so slightly as she tasted the juice, his eyes never leaving her mouth, her throat, as she swallowed.
“I believe we are bound now?” She said it quietly, with just a hint of humour at his evident surprise. Never in his life had Rhys believed someone may make this sacrifice for him, least of all a woman he loved. Who loved him?
“You will be lonely here, you will grow to hate the dark, you will not love me for the life we must live,” breathless panic underwrote the words – it was too late.
“I will have you to keep me company, will I not? And I quite like the dark with you,” she edged closer, “besides, there is no going back.”
Her lips brushed his neck, her breath ghosting over his skin. He caught her chin with two fingers and brought up her face to look at him, their eyes meeting as he leant down to kiss her. The kiss started soft, melting into each other without pressure and allowing the magnetism of their closeness to awaken their senses. Every touch was gentle, reverent, setting each nerve alight.
With the brush of a tongue still tart with pomegranate juice, Feyre deepened the kiss, tender but no longer slow. Stumbling, they backed into the wall, forgetting the table and fruit behind them. Feyre leant against the wall for support as Rhys began a languid descent of grazing teeth and damp lips down her neck, sucking a blissful bruise just above her clavicle. He continued down, fingers working the laces of her dress until it came down around her, leaving her to step out of her shift.
He was touching her again in moments, kneeling on her crumpled dress to kiss her stomach, the grooves of her hips, the tops of her thighs. She gasped at the first cool touch of his tongue on her clit, and her hands came to thread through his dark hair as he looked up at her, candlelight warm on his violet eyes. He parted her legs with his shoulders, finally tasting her.
Knees shaking, Feyre sank down to the floor and the cold stones burned against her body, relieving the heat that had begun to consume her. He continued slowly, dragging out every movement and driving her to madness.
It was impossible, she thought, to feel this much.
Rhys savoured the taste of her, her wetness against his mouth and chin, her short breaths and the hair beginning to stick to her forehead with a light sheen of sweat. He moved his tongue to enter between her slick folds and smiled as her hips canted sharply. Good, he wanted her to feel worshipped, his incandescent goddess. A light in all this darkness.
“Please, Rhys,” he knew what she wanted and moved his hand from her hip, slipping a finger inside of her. Her legs came over his shoulders, baring her impossibly more to him, and he added another finger. “Please, I want to feel you.”
He realised suddenly he was still wearing all his clothes, and she leaned forward to help him remove his shirt, her fingers trembling alongside his. Once he was finally divested of trousers, he slid over her body.
They spent a moment too charged to kiss, sharing shaking breath between them. Her hand moved down to touch him, finding him hard already. His eyes fluttered as she stroked the soft skin of his length. Feyre saw all of his biting desire, his vulnerability, his need that ran deeper than just this moment, playing across his face.
She aligned him with her, and he entered slowly, both exhaling relief. It was overwhelming – all the sensitive membrane of her body stretched thin. Her legs wrapped around his hips again, pulling them as close together as possible for just a moment, revelling in the fullness of the sensation.
They started then, hungry, hard, with small forceful thrusts, gripping tightly against each other. Feyre felt some kind of deep bliss with every movement pushing into just the right place with a bruising pressure, climax building. Rhys met her gasp with a soft kiss just as she could feel herself going over the edge, continuing that same rhythm as her body became taut around him. He could see stars at the edge of his vision but didn’t dare let go and end this feeling.
With Feyre panting and sensitive beneath him, he slowed, pulling out almost completely before entering again all the way, setting a new pace. It was torturingly languorous, both too much and not enough. Reaching down between them, he drew light circles on her clit, and she clenched around him in response.
They were both so close, he could tell, and it was a promise of too much ecstasy not to chase it. Their lips met, opening to one another, and he put on just enough extra pressure to coax her into another orgasm. When he could feel her release, he allowed himself to succumb as well.
His ears were ringing.
Pulling out after a moment, he collapsed down next to her, and tried to catch his breath. They were both damp with sweat, and his skin delighted in the cold floor.
They lay facing each other, eyes fixed and only the sound of breathing breaking the silence. Rhys brought his hand up to stroke her hair from her face, and she caught it to press her lips to his palm.
“Are you truly sure?” She nodded in response. He sighed in relief and brought her in closer, entangling their legs. Their foreheads touched and they breathed together again, calmer than before.
Exhausted, and starting to feel cold, he gathered her in his arms and lifted her through the house, to their bed. Holding her as she drifted in sleep, he finally allowed himself to dream of a life where he was not alone.