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"What sins do you have to confess, Your Majesty?" the Sanctarch whispers scandalously into your ear, with that sound you are so familiar with by now. A mix of breathy, hushed words, still ringing clear and full of the very sins he had asked of you. And the pure arrogance of someone who knows exactly what effect his voice and certain intonations have on you.
You can't prevent the heat rushing up your cheeks or the sudden rise in your heartbeat. But you're dammed when this tease of a man manages to make you stumble during the very dance that is supposed to announce the union of the Empire and the Sanctide Court.
So you only grind your teeth, tighten the hold on his elegant hand, and take the lead with the next twirl. If you hoped that would bother the man in front of you, you're mistaken.
Rafayel only smiles at you. That wicked, knowing grin that pulls his plush lips into a perfect curve. Oh, he's so damn infuriating! But surprisingly, he obeys the new change of power and lets himself be guided over the pristine wooden parquet. Light-footed, he follows the complicated row of steps. The brightness of the majestic chandeliers throws specks of golden light into the enchanting colors of his eyes. A deep, bottomless blue like the endless oceans of his home planet, and pink, the shade of cherry blossoms in spring, now speckled with glimmering stars of gold.
For a moment, you're distracted from the hypnotizing play of colors in the mysterious gaze that never seems to leave you, and you find yourself bending backward in a risqué dancing figure. Rafayel used your short-hazed state to take back the lead. Quite helpless in his firm hold, you furrow your brows.
"What are you doing?" you whisper, trying to move your lips as little as possible. So many eyes are observing you and the Sanctarch, watching you and waiting for a mistake or a hint as to why you chose him of all options as selection for the Imperial Consort.
His face is so close now, and his warm breath caresses the heated skin on your cheeks. Pink full lips are only a hairbreadth away from yours, and his gaze wanders over the expanse of your features, with a short but noticeable pause on your mouth before finding your eyes again.
"I'm dancing, Your Majesty," Rafayel whispers back, his voice barely hiding the amusement that sets the pink hue in his eyes on fire.
"This figure is not part of this dance!" you scold him through gritted teeth with a neutral expression as he lifts you again, now pressed close to his chest, clothed in a luxurious robe with intricate blue and golden details.
"No?" A turn to the left, past other dancing couples of ministers of your court and invited nobles of high status, a traitorous hand slips dangerously low on your back. "I must have mistaken the steps." Another teasing grin before these enigmatic eyes sharpen into a cold, observing pierce to your soul. "You have yet to answer my question, Your Majesty."
Letting yourself be pulled around the vast ballroom, filled with joyful music from the orchestra seated in a gallery above the grand hall, you focus on following the steps of the ceremonial dance and the unyielding lead of the Sanctarch. Your lover all these past months, since you shared that bauble in his private domain. But that doesn't mean he can control just everything. Especially not you. And certainly not here. In this ballroom, during the dance that introduces the upcoming marriage with him. That is meant to unite the two warring factions in a bond that grants the empire long-term freedom. And Murya, the home planet of Rafayel and the center of the Sanctide Court. In two days, there will be the ceremony, and your enemies are only waiting for an opportunity to harm you because not everyone likes to see the empire's faith becoming equal to the imperial reign. Or vice versa.
You scrutinize Rafayel under your lashes. There's a subtle sharpness cutting through his hushed words, now clearly audible in comparison to the first time he asked you his question. You know him well enough by now that there's always more than the Sanctarch lets on. So you choose your response wisely. "A ballroom is not the right place for one's admission. If there is even something to confess to begin with."
A sudden sharp twirl to the left, and you found yourself near one of the exits to one of the many balconies surrounding this hall. The cool night air curls around your calves and feet as it slips between the crack from the slightly left-open glass door and under the hems of your luxurious ballroom gown. The music comes to an end with a sudden crescendo, and so do the last steps of the dance. But Rafayel doesn't move immediately, a firm hold still around your midriff, and a black-gloved hand is keeping one of yours. For a second, you're confused why he won't let go, but then his fingers intertwine with yours, and you're swiftly pulled beneath the curtained glass doors that shut behind you with a discreet click.
In the blink of an eye, your back is pressed against a cold stone wall, and only the starry night sky above and the dark, piercing glare of the Sanctarch are in front of you. You want to open your mouth, asking him what the hell he's doing, but no words leave you as his hands are beside your head, trapping you with his body.
"Tell me," he demands,his voice cold and bare of any emotion. "Why is it that every time I come to the palace for rehearsals and preparations, the weekly charge of Aestuspith that was sent here due to our contracts, mysteriously vanishes. And today of all days, a battleship, filled with Imperial Troops, was about to enter Murya." The blue shade in his eyes flares dangerously cold at his last words.
"What...?" you can only stammer as all blood leaves your face, making you freeze on the spot between the cage of his robes, and trembling slightly from the cold night air. The lights from the ballroom can't reach the depths of his bright hood, hiding his amethyst hair under the veil of darkness and his magnificent eyes from you. Through the magical bond caused by the potion you shared, you feel his anger, disbelief, and the sharp sting of betrayal.
But that also means he has to sense your innocence. The bewilderment of this news. The shock that someone, a traitor, was conspiring against you. And the union of the two most important factions in this universe.
Then the blazing inferno of anger flashes through you. Not only did this fool act on your behalf, as the Empress. No. They also try to drive a wedge between you and the man you have fallen helplessly in love with. How dare they!
"I swear, Rafayel. I knew nothing of this!" you hiss back, your body now trembling in hot fury instead of the cold night air. You look up to him, trying to find his gaze under the shadows of the pristine robes. But without success. The Sanctarch is as distant as ever before. "Damn it! They will pay for this. I will let some heads roll."
Still not getting another reaction other than a hooded, unrelenting stare, you cradle his face in both of your hands. The soft skin is vastly different from the cold that the man in front of you is emitting. "Please, believe me, my Angel. Can't you feel it?" you're now pleading to him and slipping the white hood from the purple hair to reveal his face to you.
You focus on his eyes again, still hoping that you somehow manage to transport sincerity; that he will feel that you'll never act so cruelly against him. Not anymore. Not since he became the most important part of your life aside from the weight of your crown that always sits heavily on your well-dressed hair.
"You really think I'd wait so long to get my justice?" Rafayel's gaze suddenly softens, nuzzling his face into the warmth of your palms. "This matter has been resolved as soon as we started to dance." Now, a confident, cold smirk tugs at his plush lips, and the ocean of his eyes locks at yours again.
With a scoff, you withdraw from him, only to smack hard at his firm chest. "You!"
But you don't reach your aim, as Rafayel catches your wrist before your fist can even come in touch with the golden intricate ornaments of his ceremonial robes. Two fingers of his other hand caress the curve of your chin, then tilt it up. "Say it again." Plush lips drawn into a satisfactory smile, the blue and pink of his eyes twirling with endearment and tenderness.
Enchanted, you forget the original question, and a weak "Huh?" escapes your mouth before you can stop it.
"What did you just call me?" A hot breath glides over your lips, and the butterfly touch of them sets your whole body on fire.
"M- my Angel..." you whisper, entranced and weak in front of the sinful temptation that is the Sanctarch to you.
"Mmmh." Rafayel hums. "I like that."
Then his lips are melting into yours, and you can't suppress the relieved sigh. Finally, you spoke a language that doesn't need words, where you both are only you. A woman madly in love. And a man who burns the same for you.
His left hand finds its place at the nape of your neck with possessive purpose, keeping you gently in his hold, making it impossible to free yourself. Not that you ever wanted to. His tongue glides, demanding above your bottom lip, trying to slip into the wet hollow of your mouth.
A yearning moan from Rafayel, filled with an aching need, is your reward for letting him in. The taste of fresh sea salt and burning embers conquers your buds and lets you whimper into the kiss. There's nothing that compares to that heavenly aroma; nothing else can make you submit to your cunning angel. And you want more, more of him, more of his fire and the sins he asked to hear from you earlier, so you sling your arms around his neck, pulling him closer into the depths of your desire.
He fills all your senses as Rafayel deepens the kiss even more. An arm sneaks around your waist, pressing you against his firm body, no longer touching the cool wall at your back. Now you're completely engulfed in radiating heat and him. Hungry lips devour, leaving nothing to doubt that he wants you as much as you desire him. Forgotten are all the nobles, ministers, and others in the grand ballroom. Or the various maidens and servants that started frantically searching for the Empress and the Sanctarch.
Only your personal secretary keeps watch with a knowing smile and her back discreetly turned towards the closed glass doors that led to the occupied balcony. It's really a fun activity to send out the nosy ladies-in-waiting and the nervous attendants anywhere but your position. Finally, some excitement at this boring evening as long as whatever is going on with the pair, is being kept a secret from the rest of the ballroom. But as loyal as the secretary might be, she knocks three times at the glass to signal the lovey-dovey couple that they have to come back to their senses.
Hearing the sound, you unfold yourself from those tempting lips. "Rafayel..." whispering lowly to make him stop, but that greedy man only listens half-heartedly. Peppering your neck with short pecks and soft nibbles, the sole thing that proves he recognized your call out is a little displeased grunt below your ear.
"We need to go back," you giggle as he targets a sensitive spot with sucking at your skin.
Wet lips continue to torture you deliciously, and you are so tempted to let him have his way, if it weren't for the hundreds of people waiting inside. But you can't. Not when the future of the whole Empire is at stake.
Maybe he felt your emotional retreat more than your physical attempts, as his face ascends before you again. The wet, glistening, plush lips adorned with red lipstick marks are drawn into a tiny pout that lets the saturated color shine in the dim lighting through the balcony glass doors. Rafayel leans his forehead against yours as his sunset eyes search for you once again. "Already? Don't want to."
A strange feeling rises inside you, flooding your whole body with an unfamiliar warmth and bliss. "Yes," you smile fondly at your lover's reaction. If you were to say you hate to experience this side of him, you'd be lying. Nobody would believe that the Sanctarch sulks about losing the chance to exchange more kisses. And you adore it because this is not the cold, scheming head of the Sanctide Court. This is only Rafayel, the man who owns your entire heart.
"Two days until we have all the time in the world for more kisses." You reward him with a short peck and clean his mouth from lipstick marks with swift swipes of your fingers. "If there aren't going to be any more incidents..." you add, hesitating. You don't want to jinx it.
Blue and pink, now sharp as usual, pin you to the spot. "There won't." The voice of the Sanctarch is now crisp and cold, and he turns away, ready to leave the secluded place and enter the bustling hall again.
Before his gloved hand can touch the glass doors to open them, you grab the hem of his robe at the wrist. "Wait."
Rafayel freezes, a side glance revealing he listens, waiting for you to elaborate. So you step closer to pull the white hood of his ornate robe back over the lilac waves of his hair, hiding the mussed-up mass under the heavy fabric, as well as your shared time together.
"You owe me an explanation. Tell me what you discovered," you demand calmly. There's no way you forget the reason that brought you here in the first place.
A brief tug at the corners of his lips, something you wouldn't notice if you hadn't watched him so carefully already, a millisecond of hidden admiration. "Not here." A short flick of his eyes to the inside. "Wait for my message. At midnight," and with this, he steps around and out to the venue, vanishing among the mass of moving, dancing people like a shadow.
Your secretary hushes beside you, only a second later, closing the balcony door again and handing you a piece of cloth and a little handheld mirror. "Here, your Majesty. For your lipstick markings."
With a shocked face, you look at her, "You know?"
And the secretary now gets a little shy, a lovely red hue coloring her cheeks while she averts her gaze. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Since when?"
"Since your return from the banquet of His Quintessence. Your Majesty was missing for a long time, and when you came back, something about you had changed. I couldn't pinpoint it at first, but then I put two and two together and..." she sighed, "I hope Your Majesty can forgive me for not saying anything."
You chuckle and start to wipe away the traitorous traces of Rafayel's kisses at your neck and lips. "It's alright. Are you the only one?"
"Yes, I don't think anyone else has caught on, Your Majesty. And I plan to keep it that way."
"Good. Thank you," you finally smile at her. "Your loyalty means much."
That seems to let the woman who's assisting you with everything, your right hand, glow a little.
At midnight, you're following a step behind an unknown maid. That poor thing is apparently under the will of the Sanctarch, according to the flashes of blue in her eyes. And you're sure she won't remember anything about this late-night encounter when released from the mind control. The room you and your secretary are escorted to, is plunged in nearly pitch-black darkness and hidden deep in the basement of the palace, as you both enter through a sleek metal door. You need a moment to adjust to this and blink a few times to take in the new location.
Only one ray of harsh, cold light from somewhere in the ceiling shines upon a human body that is slumped onto a metallic chair. Bound with broad cuffs, the blinking of the controls signals that they hold the captured male person effectively. At the side, leaning casually against the dark stone wall, waits the looming figure of the Sanctarch. Rafayel's face is drowned in shadows beneath the familiar bright hood, and his arms are crossed above his broad chest. Some guards are covering the entrance you just passed, part of the Sanctide Court, according to their dark blue and sand colored uniforms.
The heavy metallic door slides shut behind you, leaving you and the woman at your side alone in the room with the Sanctarch and the prisoner. Rafayel's voice cuts the dusty twilight, veiled in coldness and the ceremonial tone of his duty. "Now that our special guest has arrived, you have been given the chance to confess your sins and to ask Her Majesty for forgiveness and her mercy."
The words are not meant for you; you register with a moment's delay. They're directed at the man who now lifts his head to look at you. Glaring dark eyes roam over your figure, the now grayed out beard, formerly black, is dirty and stained with blood that drips from a small cut on his cheeks. The droplets tangle up in the trimmed part at his chin. The bright, filthy hair - you remember it as dark and full – is now lank and not as meticulously dressed as once.
Nathaniel, the secretary of the former emperor continues shooting looks of disgust in your direction as he only scoffs. You recall your meetings with him in the past. The elderly man was always by the side of your predecessor, or better, three steps behind - A loyal shadow of the mad ruler Lysander who has found his jurisdiction at the Sanctide Court. You also recall that Nathaniel never acknowledged your claim to the throne.
"As if this... Girl..." the former secretary coughs heavily, the last word sounds more like an insult, than as a mere description, "deserves that title."
You're beaten to raising your voice, as Rafayel coldly warns him from the side, "Careful, old man. You're talking about the legally crowned empress, the legitimate heiress of the Throne of Eros."
But the old man only scoffs again, before glancing at the hooded figure. "What do you want to prove, boy? You're not much older than her. Do you think your title impresses me? You both are children, playing around with what does not belong to you."
The young woman who stands behind you inhales sharply. "Father, your words can easily be called treason."
That gets the full attention of Nathaniel, and his dark eyes, still sharp despite his age, are locking onto your secretary. A barking laugh is heard that turns into coughing. "Of course, you're here. You've always been a fan of that girl. You're as useless as her," he waves with a hand that is bound by the cuff.
"Enough." The Sanctarch interrupts, again, before you even have a chance to gather your wits. You can only glare at him as he shoots you a discreet, playful wink from underneath the white cloth that covers half his face.
Pushing himself off the wall he leaned on before, he strolls towards the prisoner. A short flicker of blue light, and the old man raises his head, now forced to look at the Sanctarch. "Confess your sins, and maybe you'll be granted mercy."
A barking laughter erupts again, shaking the whole body of the old secretary. "Keep your mercy, child. I know that you want the throne. But your little Court of fanatics will never rule over the Empire." The old man's voice grows increasingly frantic with every word. "I continue the will of Emperor Lysander. The Aestuspith belongs to him, and only him. Not in the hands of children. And especially not in those of weak and stupid women. Crawl to her feet as much as you want, or tangle with her in the sheets. It doesn't matter." A short, hateful spit in your direction as Nathaniel adds, "Your justice can't reach me as I'm acting on behalf of the true ruler. Murya and its Aestuspith belong to Emperor Lysander. Not the Sanctide Court! You are nothing compared to him!" Eyes, gleaming with a manic haze, stare at Rafayel, as if daring to question him.
And you don't know what you expected, but surely not the nearly relaxed reaction from the Sanctarch as he walks a few steps away, as if pondering over something, only to return and continue as if nothing had happened. "So, you think that stealing the weekly shiploads that are sent to the Empress as part of the recent contract is legal? And that calling the troops for a devious attack on Murya is reasonable, despite the union of the head of the Empire and the Sanctide Court?" All his misdeeds are listed further by the Sanctarch, and the elderly man shows no sign of remorse for doing all this.
As Rafayel finishes, you chime in. You didn't want to interrupt your fiancé, who is rightfully doing his work in the jurisdiction of the Empire. But now your blood boils. All the anger that this madman was about to push all the suspicions on the man you love, trying to sabotage your wedding and the peace you and Rafayel have so carefully crafted, you can't stay silent. "To bombard this arrangement and the peace accord is treason against the Empire, old man," echoes your commanding voice through the dungeon.
Now Nathaniel looks at you, those hateful eyes glaring daggers at you. "You are not the Empire, you are only a foolish girl! And I refuse to leave the legacy of Emperor Lysander to you. You have no right to judge me. Only the Stella Ocean and our true ruler have the right to do it!" he nearly screams, his voice turning into a maniacal yelling and hysterical laughter.
You step forward towards to the chair, now standing beside Rafayel, and bending down to the height of the elderly who has apparently lost his mind. "You forget about one thing, old man." Now your face draws up a cold smile. "I am not the one who will bring judgment over you, since that jurisdiction lies with the Sanctide Court. Always has, and always will be." And with that, you ease back. Your fingers intertwine with Rafayel's. "This man will be my consort, not an emperor. Rafayel will continue to lead the Court, and I will reign over the Empire. I do not intend to interfere with the power balance given by the Stella Ocean."
A surprised look appears on the face of the Nathaniel, as Rafayel lifts your intertwined hands to place a kiss on your knuckles. "And the Sanctide Court won't ever interfere with imperial matters." Then a sharp gaze pierces the old man. "Prepare for your judgment, as it is suitable for treason of the highest regard. You may now have a moment with your daughter to say goodbye. Take this as a gift of mercy since I'm getting married in two days." With this, Rafayel guides you out of the room with a gentle press of his free hand on your back, leaving the man to his only relative, and the two guards who are now entering.
A few minutes later, the secretary leaves the room where her father has found his rightful judgment. There's one more thing she needs to do, as she already has sight of the Empress and the Sanctarch.
As always, when she catch those two in a moment alone, His Quintessence has a completely different aura. Usually, he appears cold, unaffected, and standing above everything, lofty even. But with his soon-to-be wife, there is this tenderness and warmth in his gaze, and his whole demeanor seems to be drawn to the woman to whom the secretary swore her loyalty. Like now, when his gloved hand traces the side of the Empress's face with utmost care and gentleness.
And her Majesty is also different in those intimate moments, looking up to him with adoration, seemingly very fond of the purple-haired man.
The secretary was always concerned that the empress would never find happiness or love in an arranged marriage. But seeing her now, her doubts and worries are all gone. The Sanctarch might be a difficult choice as Imperial Consort, but if he makes Her Majesty happy, then so be it. And from what she has seen so far, Her Majesty looks radiant around him. Envyingly so. And with a little smile, the secretary calls out to the loving couple a few feet away, "Your Majesty? Your Quintessence?"
The change is instant. The Sanctarch retreats, keeping a proper distance, and all softness vanishes from his demeanor. The Empress turns around, a little scowl on her face.
"I want to express my sorrow that my father was causing so much trouble and warmongering, and I hope Your Majesty and His Quintessence don't think the same of me. My loyalty belongs to you, Your Majesty." She bows her head and sinks to one knee on the cold stone ground in the dark hallway.
Like this, she doesn't catch the short flicker of surprise and the soft gaze that settles onto her crouching figure.
"It's alright. I'm aware that you are nothing like that traitor. And I'm looking forward to having you in my services for many more years to come."
Relieved, the woman on the floor exhales. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
"The Empress is blessed to have you as her helping hand. " the handsome young leader of the Sanctide Court adds calmly, and the secretary nearly wants to cry, but of course she keeps her composure.
"You are released. The Sanctarch and I will find the way back to our chambers on our own."
"The guard will lead you back to your room." And Rafayel adds and in an unusually soft tone: "The sins of your father are not yours."
"As you wish, Your Quintessence. And thank you." And with a slight nod towards the Empress "Your Majesty."
As the guards carry away the dead body to release it into the Stella Ocean's endless embrace, you follow them together with Rafayel. On a cliff, the traitor is disposed of through a window in the Illusion that surrounds the Empire's main planet and your home. You watch the inconspicuous capsule being shot into the dark space, and as it vanishes from your sight, you turn to look at Rafayel. A grin spreads on your lips. "Now we're truly conspirators."
Your beaming smile is returned by your lover and a soft twinkle of mischief in his ocean eyes before he draws you into an embrace and leans in to kiss you. But before Rafayel's lips touch yours, he whispers, "We are."
Not about two days later, the night after the quite performative and stiff wedding ceremony, the morning sun shines warmly into your bedroom, highlighting the room in soft hues of yellow and orange. Amidst this colorful spectacle lies your newlywed husband, the Imperial Consort and Sanctarch of the Sanctide Court - Rafayel.
The chiseled torso bared to the rays of sunshine and your admiring gaze. His legs and lower body were merely covered by royal blue sheets, tauntingly showing off his abs and V-line which are decorated with countless bite marks, long lines of nailscratches and crimson colored hickeys.
Balancing a plate filled with violet grapes and two glasses of water, you step beside the bed and his splayed out figure. Rafayel stretches in bed like a lazy cat, the ocean of his eyes never leaving your figure as you walk around the room to the side of the shared bed. Presenting the exact reason, why you hadn't let the maid in with the refreshments. No way anyone gets to see Rafayel like this. This view of your husband is a blessing for your eyes only.
You set up the plate carefully on the wooden nightstand, and he extends one of his hands to lure you back into bed. His wedding ring, a broad gold one, is adorned with a big blue stone of Aestuspith which catches a sun ray and sparkles in the serene morning light. It matches the slightly more slim one on your own hand.
"C'mere..." his hoarse voice whispers. And you take the invitation, letting yourself be pulled back into the silken sheets and his warm, firm body.
Rafayel's skin is soft under your touch as your hands roam his beautiful figure freely, coming to rest on his neck as you lean in for a kiss. Which your lover, and now officially husband, does obey. You'll never get enough of the feeling of his lips on yours, of his taste, and the scent of him that quickly invades your senses. The magical bond in your system is bustling and humming, filled with more emotions than you can discern. And even if happiness and the soft tendrils of devotion are settling into a tight, fuzzy ball in your lower belly, one thought keeps you occupied.
"Are you really content with being the Empress' consort instead of being Emperor yourself?" you ask the man who is cuddled comfortably in your arms, worried that this might not be what he truly desires.
And Rafayel only smiles - that unreadable, mysterious twist of his plush lips that always leaves you wondering what he's up to. By catching your wrists and rolling you over, you find yourself suddenly pinned beneath his naked figure. Half-lidded eyes roam your wiggling body; the pink in them getting darker. Now it looks like embers of desire and hunger. His slender hips press delightfully into the still sensitive parts of your body that are already yearning for him again. A with a voice, tinted with the sound of a lazy morning and something more primal, Rafayel answers "I said it before, and I'm not going to change my mind." A soft kiss on your eyelids. "I don't want the imperial throne." A tender peck at your nose. "It is only you that I desire." Full lips touch yours, worshiping the shape of your mouth before his tongue glides out to start the dance you are already familiar with. It steals your breath and leaves your whole body tingling and filled with a want that aches deep down in your belly, a hunger for a closeness that is barely to satiated.
And Rafayel doesn't feel any different as the spell of your union emits, and the way his mouth starts to descend on your thinly covered body. The flimsy excuse of a nightgown was wrinkled long ago, clinging to your skin in places that betray how much you're desperate for the man who is conquering your whole being.
Numerous reverent touches and hoarsely whispered words filled with devotion later, deliberate hands are pushing the sheer fabric up your belly and chest, and with an impatient grunt, over your head. Your body is now left to the cool air, trembling and bare to the hungry gaze of the purple-haired man who has caught your heart. He's admiring the offering that lies at his knees, entranced by the art that is you.
"Rafayel..." you lowly call out to him with outstretched hands, unable to stand the distance between you.
With a hungry kiss, he's closing the gap, diving into you like a man starved. As if he hadn't ravished you all night long. Eventually, you're skin to skin again, engulfed in his body heat and the burning flames of your desire.
Swept away in the waves of want and need, his hard and hot length glides into you without resistance, your inner walls still pliant from sinful activities of the night before. Both your moans are filling the spacious room, but Rafayel stops moving as soon as he's fully sheathed inside you.
A heated gaze caresses your face, devouring you with eyes alone. "This is all I want," he whispers with a breathy voice, as his head goes down to nibble and kiss at the sensitive skin of your throat. "All of you and only you. Until times end, I shall occupy your every thought." Hot wet kisses are placed on your cleavage, and more love bites are added to the skin that is already bruised and marked all over. It stings a bit, but it only adds fuel to the flames that are burning you from inside.
Your fingers sink into the lush waves of his lilac hair, scratching the skin underneath. "And I'm yours. Until the Stella Ocean vanishes and this universe collapses." Then you cradle the handsome face, forcing him to stop his worship and to look at you. "And you're mine. Until this universe burns and everything comes to an end."
Rafayel's gaze grows even darker, a desperate feral hunger taking over the depths in the mirrors of his soul. "I am." A solemn vow from a faithful being to the person who holds the most power in this universe.
Then your lover moves his hips. Slowly. With an agonizingly leisurely pace, he drags his cock along your greedy, clenching walls, until finally only the hot tip remains. You whimper and whine out of desperation, trying to coax him back to where you ache for him with your legs slinging around him. Pushing, stroking, tempting him to do something, anything to come to the place you feel like you're dying without him. Eventually, the Sanctarch hears your prayers and in one go, using a powerful thrust, your walls are stimulated and bullied in the most delicious, sinful way. The queen-sized bed screeches together with your scream of pleasure and triumph. Your slick, aching core is finally being filled again by him.
And Rafayel whispers in your ear as his hot breath tickles the skin beneath, "Take me, my beloved, all of me."
Hungrily, he bites the junction of your neck and shoulders, dragging his lower body away from you again. Only to add another desperate, powerful thrust that sends you into the Abyss of endless pleasure. And the bed once more against the walls.
The rattling continues and is nearly drowned by your moans and cries, the slapping sound of body to body, stifled under sheets, but still loud enough to reach your ears.
Rafayel's pace is ruthless. Owning. Consuming. Until all that is left is the overwhelming feeling of your impending climax and his passionate, high-pitched moans and groans. He is lost in the desperate chase for the highest of heights, but still wants to drive you over the edge first.
Blown out pupils nearly hide all of the blue and pink in his eyes as he looks at you through the sweat-damped strands of his purple hair. Cheeks glowing in a lovely red hue, only highlighting his ethereal beauty. Swollen, kiss-bitten lips half parted from his breathless pants and whimpers. You've never seen something more astonishing in your life.
"Together," you choke out. Demanding or begging, you're not sure. But the mighty Sanctarch grants your prayer regardless.
A fierce kiss swallows your "Please" before you can complete it, and some unrelenting, deep thrusts later, you're thrown into your orgasm like a buoy at sea. Your whole body spasms, toes curling, and your legs wrapping in a vice-like grip around his waist. You scream and cry, eyes squeezed shut as the fireworks behind your lids shoot lightning of pure pleasure into your system.
And like you wanted, Rafayel follows, unable to hold back any longer. Hot spurts of creamy liquid, adding to the aftershock of your climax, and the twitching of his cock stimulates your still quivering walls. He bites your bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his primal moan, but to no avail. His body shuddering from the waves of his own climax.
Eventually, the movement of his hips slows down until a lazy, relaxed pace remains, riding your climax out into overstimulation.
Whimpering, you try to push him back, to get him out of your core. "Stop... Please... S'tomuch."
A deep, desperate rumble is all you hear, but at least he stops. The hot length is still resting in the heat of your body's core, but now mostly unmoving. Only some twitches remain, that send delicious tingles up your spine.
Ragged pants shake his chest, the waves synchronizing with your own heavy breaths as his face lifts to take you in. His gaze hazed, eyes glossed over with the afterglow of your ancient dance. "Don't push me away..." words whispered with a hoarse voice, unveiling a vulnerability you didn't know he'd ever show you.
Huffing and with a loving smile spreading over your lips, you cradle his love-drunk face. "Never, my Angel. But grant me a break, will you?" completed by a tender peck at the bridge of his nose, which results in a satisfied sighs and Rafayel nuzzling his head into your warm palms.