Chapter 54 — Three Days of Heat, 1 (R18+)
Warning: This chapter contains explicit adult content. If you're 17 or younger, please skip ahead.
The heavy oak door to the suite clicked shut behind Sylan Kyle Von Noctis with a finality that echoed in the quiet room, sealing out the distant hum of the capital's night—lanterns flickering in the streets below, the faint clip-clop of late carriages on cobble. But the moment he crossed the threshold, his breath snagged sharp in his throat, the world narrowing to the woman standing by the hearth.
Virelle Thren turned at the sound, the firelight playing over her like a lover's caress—warm, golden tongues of flame licking up the curves of her body, highlighting every dip and swell. The black maid's dress clung to her like a whispered sin, scandalously tight in ways that made Sylan's pulse hammer hard against his ribs. The corset cinched her waist to a impossible hourglass, pushing her full breasts high and proud, the lace edging the low neckline teasing just enough pale skin to drive a man mad. The skirt rode daringly short, barely skimming the tops of her thigh-high stockings, garters peeking like forbidden invitations. Ribbons laced up the sides, begging to be tugged loose, and the whole thing hugged her hips like it was sewn straight onto her skin—bold, unashamed, a far cry from the modest grays she usually wore.
Sylan's crimson eyes darkened to near-black, his jaw locking tight as he drank her in, heat flooding low and fierce in his gut. His blond hair, still tousled from the night's formal knots, fell forward into his eyes as he stalked closer, boots silent on the thick rug. "What in the hells did you pick up?" His voice came out rough, a low growl scraped from deep in his chest, laced with hunger he didn't bother hiding.
Virelle's brown eyes met his, smoldering with a fire that matched the hearth—bold, knowing, a spark of mischief dancing in their depths. A slow, teasing smile curved her full lips, and she tilted her head just so, letting the light catch the flush creeping up her neck. "Do you like it, my lord?" she purred, her voice a velvet rasp, fingers trailing lazy up the lace at her throat, drawing his gaze like a magnet.
Sylan swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet, his throat working against the sudden dryness. He closed the gap in two strides, towering over her, close enough to feel the heat rolling off her skin, to catch the faint, sweet scent of her—lavender and warm flesh, mixed with the smoke from the fire. "You know damn well I do," he admitted, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, his calloused fingers reaching out to trace the swell of one breast, feeling the soft give under the thin fabric. Her nipple pebbled instant under his touch, straining against the lace, and he bit back a groan, thumb circling slow, teasing the peak until her breath hitched. "But I didn't figure you'd actually slip into it. Not like this."
She laughed then—a soft, breathy sound that shot straight to his groin like liquid fire, her body arching just a fraction into his hand, chasing the friction. "You paid for it," she whispered, stepping nearer, her hands sliding up his chest—fingers splaying over the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the steady thud of his heart racing under her palm. "And I serve at your pleasure, don't I? Every whim... every desire."
That snapped the last thread.
His mouth claimed hers in a crash of heat and need—fierce, demanding, no room for gentle starts. Virelle melted into him like wax under flame, her hands fisting in his blond hair, tugging just enough to draw a growl from his throat as his tongue swept in, tasting her—sweet wine from the banquet, the faint salt of her skin, the moan she fed him like a gift. Sylan groaned deep, the sound vibrating between them, his hands clamping her hips in a bruising grip, yanking her flush against him. She gasped into the kiss, feeling him—hard and insistent, thick length pressing hot through his trousers against her belly, all ten inches of him straining, pulsing with the raw ache she'd ignited.
Virelle pulled back just a breath, lips swollen and glistening, her eyes locked on his—dark with want, pupils blown wide. "Then let me serve you right," she whispered, voice husky, laced with promise, her fingers already dipping to the buttons of his shirt, popping them free one by one.
Sylan didn't waste words. He walked her backward, relentless, until her calves hit the bed's edge— the massive four-poster with its heavy velvet drapes and feather mattress that sank soft under their weight. He broke the kiss long enough to spin her, pressing her down onto the silken sheets, his body covering hers in a blanket of heat and muscle. His hands roamed greedy up her thighs, bunching the scandalous skirt higher, exposing the pale skin above her stockings, the garters straining taut. Fingers hooked the damp lace of her undergarments—already soaked through—and he tore them aside with a rip that echoed sharp, the fabric giving way like it knew its place.
Virelle gasped, back arching off the bed as his rough fingers found her core—sliding between slick folds, teasing the entrance before plunging in deep, two thick digits curling just right. She moaned loud, head tossing back against the pillows, her body clenching around him like a vice, wet heat pulling him deeper. "Sylan—" His name spilled from her lips like a prayer, hips bucking up to meet his hand, chasing the stretch, the burn.
He growled low, free hand pinning her thigh wide, thumb finding her clit and circling firm—slow at first, then faster, relentless, feeling her tighten, her breaths coming in ragged pants. "So wet for me already," he rasped against her throat, nipping the skin there, soothing with his tongue. "All this for your lord?"
Her hands scrabbled at his shirt, yanking it open to rake nails down his chest—red trails blooming over scarred muscle—while her other hand fumbled at his belt, desperate, buttons popping under frantic fingers. When she finally shoved his trousers down, freeing him, her breath stuttered sharp. He sprang heavy into her palm—huge, thick as her wrist, veined and flushed dark, the broad head already slick with pre-cum. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slow from base to tip, thumb swiping the bead at the slit, feeling him throb hot and alive in her grip.
Sylan hissed through his teeth, hips jerking into her touch, his fingers thrusting deeper inside her—three now, stretching her, curling to hit that spot that made her cry out, walls fluttering wild. "Fuck, Virelle—" His voice broke rough, forehead dropping to hers, breath hot and uneven as her hand worked him—twisting on the upstroke, squeezing just right.
She didn't let him string words. With a wicked glint in her eye, she sank to her knees before him on the rug— the soft wool muffling her descent—brown eyes locked fierce on his crimson ones, holding him pinned as she gripped him firm. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the slit slow, tasting salt and heat, before she parted her lips wide and took him in—stretching around his girth, hollowing her cheeks as she sank down inch by inch.
Sylan's head fell back, a guttural groan ripping from his chest, fingers knotting in her black hair—not pulling, just holding, anchoring as her mouth worked him hot and wet. She was too full—lips stretched taut, jaw aching—but she pushed on, taking more, throat relaxing to swallow him deeper, her hand stroking the base she couldn't reach, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gentle, tugging light. Saliva slicked her chin, dripping messy, but she hummed around him—the vibration shooting lightning up his spine—tongue swirling the underside, teasing the vein that throbbed under her touch.
"You don't—" he gasped, hips bucking shallow, but she cut him off with another hum, deeper, her throat convulsing around the head as she bobbed—slow at first, then faster, head twisting side to side, hand pumping in rhythm. His grip tightened in her hair, breaths ragged, muscles coiling like a spring wound too far. "Virelle—fuck, your mouth—I'm—"
She didn't retreat. She took him to the hilt—or as close as her body allowed—nose brushing his abdomen, throat working to milk him as he shattered. Sylan's roar was primal, hips stuttering as he spilled hot down her throat—thick pulses she swallowed greedy, not spilling a drop, her tongue lapping him clean as she pulled back slow, lips glistening, eyes watering but triumphant.
He hauled her up fierce, mouth crashing to hers—bruising, owning, tasting himself on her tongue with a growl that vibrated between them. He tumbled her back onto the bed, the mattress yielding deep under their weight, his body blanketing hers—hard planes against soft curves. Fingers dove back between her thighs, slick with her arousal, plunging in to curl and thrust, thumb grinding firm on her clit in tight circles that had her keening, back bowing off the sheets.
Virelle cried out sharp, nails raking red lines down his back, legs clamping his waist as pleasure crested hard—waves crashing over her, walls spasming around his fingers, soaking his hand as she shattered, moans breaking to whimpers against his shoulder.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and labored breaths—sweat-slick skin sliding, hearts thundering in sync. Sylan pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering, then chased it to her lips—gentle now, sated, a brush of warmth in the afterglow. His voice rasped low, rough with the promise of more: "Three days. And I'm gonna wreck you in that dress."
Virelle smiled lazy, body still thrumming with echoes, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "I'm counting on it."