The Firefly’s Burden-Chapter 60: Nothing Between Us

The Firefly’s Burden-Chapter 60: Nothing Between Us

The door shut with a soft, final click, and the quiet felt like a hand pressed over the mouth of the world.
Cassie didn’t kiss me. Not yet. She set her palm beside my head on the wood and leaned in close enough that the camellia in her perfume slid cool over the marshmallow heat rising off my skin. The Summer Cloak pooled at her heels like spilled firelight; the ice-blue suit made her look carved out of winter.
“Do you want this?” she asked. Low. Clear. Not a tease.
My three-tap started up against the doorframe. She caught my pinky with hers and stilled it without looking away from my eyes. “Mira.”
“Yes.” It came out breathless and too loud. I swallowed. Tried again. “Yes.” I could have met her with a command. Instead, I gave her consent.
“Still yes if we go slow?” Her thumb skimmed the edge of my jaw, feather-light.
“Still yes.” The words steadied my own pulse. Saints, they steadied everything. It felt like loosening reins I’d white-knuckled all year.
“Breathe.” She guided my wrist up, laying my hand against her chest. The watch beneath her jacket ticked steady under my palm, a metronome I could anchor to. In. Out. In. Out. My scent spiked bright citrus; hers answered with vanilla thickening until it felt like warmth pooling low in my belly. I set kingdoms to tempo; here, I let her set mine.
Cassie’s gaze dropped to my mouth. “You spent all that time painting this just to ruin it on me, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” My voice scraped. “Take it.”
She smiled, small and lethal, and kissed me—too hard at first. Our teeth clicked, I made an embarrassing little sound, and a laugh caught in both our throats at the same time. The laugh undid something coiled tight under my ribs, and I didn’t pick it back up. The second kiss landed softer, thorough and slow, rose-gold shimmer smearing onto her lip like I’d marked her on purpose. When she pulled back a breath, she looked at the stain, then licked it away with a sort of reverence that made my knees want to fold.
“Better,” she murmured. “Again.”
We kissed until the door cooled my shoulder blades and the world narrowed to the slide of her mouth and the disciplined way she didn’t let it turn frantic. She kept me on the edge of slow. Every time I tried to chase faster, she curled her fingers at my hip and eased me back into her rhythm. “With me, Firefly,” she whispered against my lower lip. “Let it build.”
“Bossy,” I said, but it sounded like please. I almost mouthed off just to earn the scold; I chose to behave to earn the praise.
She huffed a laugh that tasted like citrus and a dare. “Take off our crowns with me.”
Not a command—an offering. She stepped back just enough to turn, fingers hooking mine, and guided us to the vanity. Side by side in the mirror: molten rose-gold and ice-blue, my diadem pulsing faintly like a heartbeat caught in silver wire; her frozen-flame circlet gleaming where the Glow Court had set it. I watched her untie the ribbon anchoring her braid-crown and felt my mouth go dry at the length of her throat, bared and perfect. She reached for my diadem first.
“May I?”
I nodded. “Yes.” The word shivered down my spine. Letting her lift my diadem was its own kneel, done standing.
She lifted the delicate piece like it might shatter, set it gently beside hers until the two crowns hummed at each other—our glow answering hers. Without breaking eye contact, she slid the first crystal pin free of my braid. Curls tumbled. Another pin. More embers fell. She took her time, and with each slow unpinning my body learned what tonight was: not spectacle. Ceremony we made for ourselves. In the mirror: a queen who could, for once, choose to be kept. “If you drift,” she said very softly, “may I use your true name, Miracle, to anchor you?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Tonight, yes.”
“Only as an anchor,” she promised.
“Turn,” she said softly.
I turned. The gown’s thin straps clung to my shoulders like molten chains. Her fingers brushed the silk, then slid to the back, finding the hook with ridiculous ease. Of course she did. She always did. She didn’t undo it yet; she just let her knuckles rest against the heat of my spine, right where the Summer sigil lived. My breath hitched. My seam-rolling habit had nowhere to go, so I took her sleeve and rolled the cuff once, twice, neat. She let me. Then she stroked her thumb along my wrist—cuff glide—and the static under my skin smoothed like she’d ironed it.
“No court,” she said. Her breath warmed the little hairs at my nape. “No prophecy.”
“Just you.” The words came out before I could dress them up.
“Just us,” she corrected, and kissed the point where my braid had tugged my scalp all evening. The shiver that slid through me knocked the rest of my pride loose. Heat licked the glass; the mirror fogged at the edges. My fire curled around her like recognition and never burned. We’d let the cloak fall when the latch clicked; neither of us looked back.
She touched the tiny metal fastener at my shoulder again. “These first?”
“Please.” The please tasted like surrender and lightning. I didn’t hate it. Please tasted like setting a blade down.
The strap slipped, silk kissing my skin as it fell. Then the other. She eased the dress down only enough to bare the tops of my breasts in their star-threaded whisper of a bra. She stopped there, and I could have screamed.
“You’re cruel,” I said, which absolutely meant do that again forever.
“Patient,” she corrected, mouth curving. Her hands didn’t move lower. Instead, she stepped back into my space and kissed me again, slow enough to make me feel every drag of her lips. When I tried to chase, she caught my chin in two fingers and made me take it—steady, measured, ruining me on restraint. My fangs ached, a bright little hunger; she tipped her chin like a promise for later, and I held the line.
“Say yes,” she murmured when the kiss broke.
“Yes,” I said immediately, falling into the answer like it had been waiting under my tongue all year.
“Still yes if I touch you over the silk?”
Heat flashed between my thighs, bright as a struck match. “Yes.”
Her hand found my waist and slid—down, across, lower—until the heel of her palm pressed warm against the glittering lace. She didn’t push. She held. The contact alone sent my scent spiking sugar-bright, the rain in it sharpening like storm-petrichor. Cassie inhaled, slow and shaky, and the vanilla in her scent deepened so much it bordered indecent.
“Oh,” I said, brilliant conversationalist that I am.
She smiled like she’d planned this exact oh for months. “Breathe with me.”
We did. Together. In. Out. The room warmed a fraction at the edges, my magic answering the steady way she refused to rush me. When my thighs trembled, she pressed her forehead to mine—another anchor, another yes—nose brushing, mouths close enough to share breath without kissing.
“I want…” The word stuck. I hated that it stuck. “I want you to…”
“Tell me,” she said, not moving her hand even a millimeter.
“I want you to keep being bossy,” I blurted, mortified and saved at once. “I want you to lead.”
Her eyes went feral-bright. “Good girl.”
The praise hit me like a hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. My knees wobbled. My mouth fell open on a sound I’d deny in daylight. The admission felt like kneeling without moving.
“Still yes?” she asked, because she is who she is.
“Still—” I swallowed, found the word, owned it. “Still yes.” Tonight I could be crown and girl both—queen in public, willing in her hands.
“Then we’ll take our time,” Cassie said, that captain’s steadiness threading through her voice as she curled her fingers, finally—at last—just enough pressure to make the silk dampen beneath her palm. “All night if we need to.”
I shuddered. “We will.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed me like patience could be filthy.
She didn’t chase the kiss. She stepped back a breath and looked at me like I was a puzzle she’d decided to solve with her hands.
“Bed,” she said, and I went, because the word sounded like permission and I was starving for it. I went because I wanted to obey her. I set the reins in her hands.
The mattress held a low, banked warmth, as if it remembered every time we’d almost done this. She guided me to the edge and sat me there, her knees between mine, her palms braced on either side of my hips so the heat of her body caged me without closing in. I held still when she asked without words. “One at a time,” she murmured. “We’ll make a ceremony of it.”
Her fingers slid under the loosened bodice and coaxed the gown down—inch by molten inch—until it sighed over my hips and pooled at my feet like poured copper. Heat licked out of me; the air wavered, wood gave a soft pop, and she didn’t even flinch. I shivered in nothing but the star-threaded bra and those obscene little panties I’d picked with wicked intent and now could hardly survive. She looked, openly, the way she looks at a debate board—assessing, hungry, sure—and something inside me unclenched because she wasn’t pretending not to want.
“Perfect,” she said, like it was a fact, not a kindness.
I reached for her lapel because doing nothing would’ve broken me. She let me tug her closer by her jacket, then caught my hand and turned it, pressing my palm flat to her sternum. The slow thud of her heart beat steady under my hand. “Breathe,” she reminded, and I did, even as my thighs tried to close and her hand kept them parted with a firm, patient pressure at my knee.
“Still yes if I touch your breasts?” she asked, and the care in the question punched straight through my chest.
“Yes,” I said, and then, because we’d promised clarity, “please.” She waited—one beat, two—like the yes mattered more than the touch.
She smiled like I’d handed her a crown and deserved to wear it. Her thumbs traced the edge of the bra, then slid beneath, slow enough to ruin me. When her palms cupped me, heat sparked from my ribs to my spine; when her thumbs brushed my nipples through the whisper of lace, my back arched without consulting me.
“Beautiful,” she said, low. “You feel—” She swallowed like the word might be dangerous. “You feel like you were made for my hands.”
A dumb, helpless sound left me. The citrus in my scent brightened until it stung my own nose; her vanilla thickened, musk curling warmer, and the air between us went syrup-sweet. She bent, kissed the slope above the cup first, then the curve, then the border of lace itself like a line she refused to cross without permission.
“May I take this off?” she asked against my skin.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Gods, yes.”
The clasp gave under her fingers. She slid the straps down my arms like she was unwrapping a relic, then set the scrap of lace aside with the same neat care she’d given our crowns. My hands twitched toward her hair out of habit; she caught my wrist midair and kissed the inside, right over the racing pulse. The world steadied.
“Look at me,” she said.
I did. She held my gaze as she bowed her head and took one nipple into her mouth, slow. Heat detonated low in my belly; my breath broke on a curse I didn’t mean to let loose. Her tongue circled, gentle; her hand kneaded the other breast with long, deliberate passes that made electricity crackle through my ribs. It should’ve been too much. It was exactly enough.
“You’re shaking,” she said between kisses.
“Because you’re—” I couldn’t find the right insult and the right praise at the same time. “—because you’re unfair.”
“Mm.” She sucked softly, then soothed with her tongue. “I’ll be unfair all night.”
She proved it by switching sides just when my body started to find a rhythm. Every time tension coiled, she eased me back from the edge—not denying me, just refusing to let me sprint. When I tried to press her mouth harder to me, she caught my hips with both hands and pinned me to patience.
“Say yes,” she murmured again when I whimpered.
“Yes,” I said. “Cassie, yes.”
Her hands slid down my ribs, over the glittering trail I’d dusted along my torso, and came to rest at the line of silk where panties met hip. She looked up, pupils blown, mouth wet and wicked. “Over the lace again?”
I nodded, words gone, and then made myself breathe. “Yes. Over first.”
Her palm cupped me through the fabric, firmer this time, and heat arrowed so hard I almost folded. She didn’t rub. She held. The pressure was obscene, careful. My hips tried to chase; she kept me right there, her other hand banded warm around my thigh to steady me.
“Good,” she whispered. “Feel what you’re asking for.”
“I’m asking for more,” I managed.
“You can have it.” The heel of her hand rocked once, slow, and sparks shot through my veins. “But we’re not racing.”
“I hate you,” I said, and it sounded exactly like do that again. She laughed, soft and wrecked.
“Liar,” she said, and rocked again. The room tilted. My scent went sugar-smoke; rain sharpened to storm. She pressed her forehead to mine so I couldn’t go anywhere but into the feeling. My heat climbed; her skin stayed safe—mine to warm, never to burn. “Breathe with me.”
We did. In. Out. Our breaths synced. The bedframe creaked like a hearth log settling. I realized distantly that my nails were biting into her forearm; she flexed into it like she wanted the sting.
“Inside?” she asked, voice gone husky. “Or shall I keep you right here?”
A flicker of first-time fear—sharp, humiliating—flared through my belly. Cassie went very still, breath easy against my cheek, thumb steadying on my thigh. She waited. Then, soft and sure, the anchor we’d agreed to: “Miracle.” The name landed warm, righting me. “I’m here,” she murmured. “We go slow.”
“Slow,” I said, voice thin and sure at once. “Inside—slow.”
“Good girl.” Praise landed hotter than any order. She kissed me once, quick and reverent, like sealing a pact. Then her fingers slipped under the lace, careful as prayer.
The first slide wasn’t even a slide—just the graze of her knuckles where I was already slick, a low sound breaking out of both of us at once. She didn’t look away from my eyes. “Still yes?”
“Still yes,” I said, and then, because it mattered, “Cassie, please.”
She pressed. One finger, shallow, testing. My whole body arched; she pinned my knee with her other hand and waited out the tremor, letting me take her without drowning. Another breath. Another inch. She held while I breathed and didn’t move until I nudged her. Heat unfurled like a sunrise behind my eyes.
“Tell me,” she murmured. “Tell me when it’s good.”
“It’s—” I couldn’t find words for a second; all I had were sounds and the careful way she was listening. “There. Yes, there.”
She found the angle like she’d mapped me in a dream and started a rhythm so slow I could have wept. Shallow, deliberate strokes while her thumb hovered above the place that ached most. She didn’t touch it. Not yet. She made me feel every pass, let the pressure build until language fuzzed at the edges.
“More?” she offered, the question a breath against my cheek.
“More,” I begged, shameless now. “Please—touch me.”
Her thumb found my clit with a feathering stroke that stole the rest of my air. Not hard. Not fast. A steady, circling pressure that matched the slide of her hand inside me until my hips started to answer without my permission. She kept me there, kept me with her, breathing in time with hers while the room warmed and my magic ran honey-thick under my skin.
“Look at me,” she said again, because she must have known I was trying to go bright enough to vanish. I dragged my gaze back to hers and found it—fierce, tender, unguarded.
“I’ve got you,” she said. “Come for me.”
It wasn’t a command. It landed like one in my bones. The world narrowed to the precise circles of her thumb, the careful slide of her fingers, the way her voice didn’t shake even when mine did.
When it hit, it was nothing like I’d feared. Not fire breaking loose. Not loss of control. It rolled through me like heat finally getting to finish a sentence it had been forced to swallow all year. I heard myself cry out—too loud, too honest—and she caught my mouth with hers, taking the sound like a gift. My scent flared—sweet, sharp, smoke at the edges—and then softened, ozone lifting clean as a storm’s relief. Heat shimmered; the window fogged; the headboard gave a soft, satisfied creak. She stayed cool and safe at the center of it.
“Good,” she whispered against my lips, easing me down, gentling her hand until aftershocks were just trembles under her palm. “That’s it. Good girl. So good, Mira. Breathe.”
I did. In. Out. Our breaths synced. The room settled around us. My body felt like a bell that had finally stopped ringing.
When she would have withdrawn, I grabbed her wrist, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “Don’t you dare leave me empty.”
She stilled, eyes bright with pleased surprise. “Not leaving. Never leaving.”
Only then did she slip free, slick and careful, and I realized my hand was already on her jacket, dragging her closer by the lapel like I could fuse us by proximity alone.
“My turn,” I said, voice rough with it. “I’m not the only one who gets ruined tonight.”
Her smile went slow and dangerous. “Come try,” she murmured, and the challenge lit me up from the inside.
“I will,” I said, and tugged her closer by the front of her shirt—no jacket now, just crisp fabric and the clean line of her body under it. My hands knew what to do even while my pulse fluttered: unfasten, reveal, worship.
“Still yes?” I asked, because she gives me that respect and I want to wear it both ways.
“Still yes,” she said, the words steady enough to make me braver.
I worked the top button open, then the next, slow enough to hear the thread whisper. Each inch of revealed skin got a kiss to mark the territory—hollow of her throat, notch of her collarbone, the steady pound where her pulse pressed close to the surface. Her scent shifted with every pass—citrus brightening, vanilla winding warmer until my mouth watered like I’d been starved on purpose.
“Breathe,” she teased gently when I forgot, and I huffed a helpless laugh against her skin.
“I am,” I lied, then reached for her wrist and brought it to my mouth. I kissed the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat and felt it answer my lips like a secret. “Time’s ours.”
Her breath caught. “It is.”
I pushed her shirt from her shoulders, careful, reverent, folding it over the chair because she’d done that for me. The tailored lines of the suit trousers made my fingers itch; I slid my thumbs under the waistband and looked up. “May I?”
That feral-soft light flickered in her eyes again. “Yes.”
I undid the hook, eased the zipper, and the relief in her exhale nearly undid me on the spot. I pressed a kiss just inside her hipbone, then the other. Her hands went to my hair, not to guide, just to anchor herself, and the camellia in her scent turned from cool elegance to something that bloomed on my tongue.
“Sit,” I said, surprising us both with the steadiness in it. I nudged her back until her knees hit the bed and she sat on the edge of the mattress.
I knelt between her legs and let myself look. The line of her stomach under the pale strip of her undershirt. The way her thighs flexed when I kissed just above the waistband. The tremor she didn’t hide when I breathed hot over the silk beneath.
“Tell me if you want hands or mouth,” I said, palms smoothing up the outsides of her thighs in long, grounding strokes.
“Mouth,” she said at once, and then softer, like giving me something precious, “please.”
I nodded, and bent. The first touch wasn’t a lick; it was a kiss through silk, lingering and shameless. Her breath stuttered; her fingers tightened in my hair, careful not to pull. I did it again, a little firmer, and heat bloomed on my tongue through the fabric—clean citrus snapped open, vanilla thickened, and underneath it all that human sweetness I’d wanted for months.
“Still yes?” I asked, because I like the way her yes feels on my skin.
“Yes.” Rough now. Hungry. “Mira…”
I slid my thumbs under the edges and eased the silk aside. She made a sound I wanted to swallow whole, and I took a second just to breathe her in—no court, no crown, just Cassie, warm and slick and trembling for me.
“Beautiful,” I said, because it was true and she deserved to hear it first.
Then I put my mouth on her, slow. A soft, careful flatten of my tongue that learned her, not conquered her. I traced her like a map—lower, up, then circling the place that had her thighs quiver against my shoulders. “Pressure okay?” I asked, mouth slick against her, words a little wrecked.
“Perfect,” she said, and the word hit my spine like a pulled bowstring.
I set a rhythm meant for patience, not fireworks—small, sure passes with my tongue, then withdrawing to kiss the inside of one thigh and let her miss me before returning to the exact spot that made her breath trip. I braced my hands around her hips so she could push if she wanted; when she did, I matched her, not faster, just firmer, letting her lead me without giving up the slow we’d promised.
“Look at me,” she breathed, and I did, eyes up through my lashes, mouth still on her. The sight of her—head tipped back, lips parted, those crystalline eyes blown dark when they found mine—ruined any thought I had of mercy.
“Good,” she whispered, then lost words, a broken sound tugging loose as I sealed my mouth more fully over her and drew delicate, coaxing suction. Not hard. Not relentless. Just enough to make her hips jerk once, surprised, and then fall into me like she’d discovered gravity.
Her scent went richer—vanilla spilling warm, citrus sharpened into something like lightning. “Mira,” she gasped, and her hand finally did tighten in my hair, careful but pleading. “Please—don’t stop. Whatever you do—don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” I said against her, the promise a vibration she felt as much as heard.
When I slid one hand down and let a single fingertip join—only to stroke, not to enter—her whole body shuddered, a soft curse torn from her throat that made satisfaction bloom hot in my chest. I kept the pad of my finger circling just where she was slickest, matching the slow cadence of my tongue until her thighs began to tremble, that tiny losing-balance tremble I’d learned meant she was almost there.
“Breathe,” I murmured, brief kiss to her inner thigh, then back where she wanted me. “Let it happen.”
Her breathing went ragged and sure all at once. “Mira—” my name a plea, a praise, a warning. “I’m—”
“Come for me,” I said, sweet as sin, and sealed my mouth over her again.
It hit her like surf breaking—first a shudder, then a roll through her that lifted her off the sheets and put her there against my tongue, honest and unguarded. I held on and held her through it, not easing until the tremors softened under my palms and her hand loosened in my hair, stroking instead of clinging. Heat shimmered off my skin; a breath of steam curled where we pressed. She stayed cool and sure at the center of it.
I kissed her once more, a slow, reverent press, then eased the silk back into place with careful fingers. When I looked up, her eyes were wet and smiling like I’d written her a secret and handed it back.
“That,” she said, voice wrecked in the prettiest way, “was deeply unfair.”
I rested my cheek against her thigh and grinned up at her. “I prefer ‘competitive.’”
Her laugh rolled through me. She tugged me up, kissed my swollen mouth, tasted herself on my tongue, and groaned like she’d just remembered gratitude. “Mine,” she whispered against my lips.
“Yours,” I said, and let the word settle in my chest like a benediction.
We didn’t rush the next breath. Or the one after. When she finally eased back, color high in her cheeks, she stroked my jaw with her thumb and breathed a shaky laugh. “We’re going to be insufferable about this.”
“Later.” I nipped her lower lip, light. “For now, round two?”
Her eyes went bright and wicked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Her grin went all teeth and promise.
She caught my wrists and pinned them above my head, not hard—just sure.
“Color?”
“Green,” I said, way too fast. “So green.”
“Rules.” Her breath skimmed my mouth. “Hands stay where I put them. You ask for what you want. And if you want to come, you say it.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Bossy,” I whispered, and she smiled like I’d said beautiful. I locked my fingers around the slats and stayed, because obedience to her felt like relief.
“Undress me with your eyes,” she said, wicked-soft, and did it herself. Two deft flicks—her bra unclasped; pale straps slipped from her shoulders. A slow hook of thumbs, and the silk panties went down, the neat arch of her foot stepping free. She placed both pieces on the chair like sacred things, then came back all skin and strength and that clean line of collarbone I wanted to write poems on with my mouth.
“Eyes,” she reminded, and I dragged them back up from the view she’d just gifted me.
“Green,” I repeated, because the word had turned into a prayer.
“Good girl.” She kissed me once, quick, and shifted lower, hooking my knee over her hip. “Now listen. You’re going to give me your thigh.” Her voice dropped, precise. “I’m going to ride it. And while I do, I’m going to keep you right there—pretty and ruined and not falling until I say. Understood?”
A whimper escaped me. “Understood.”
She guided my leg between hers and sat, slow, until my thigh pressed firm against her. Heat slicked my skin; her breath hitched, honest and helpless, and I would’ve sold something valuable to hear that sound again.
“Hands,” she warned when my fingers twitched. I wrapped them tighter around the headboard. “Good girl—just like that.”
“Still green,” I said, because she’d ask.
“Good.” She rolled her hips once, testing, and swore under her breath—quiet, reverent—before she found the angle and set a grind so deliberate it stole thought. Not fast. Hungry. The friction caught her clit each pass; the flex of her thighs lit my nerves like struck tinder. The window fogged another inch.
“Unfair,” I managed, trying to chase and finding nothing but air where I wanted pressure.
“Designed.” Her mouth curved; her breath stuttered. “Stay with me, Firefly.” She caught my lower lip between her teeth, then kissed me through the sound I made when she pressed down and dragged, taking every inch of what my body could give her. My own fangs ached; later, I promised them.
“Fuck,” I choked, and she laughed—wrecked, pleased.
“Language escalation noted,” she murmured, and ground again, a little harder, a little slower. The headboard thudded; a bracket complained. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” The word snagged; she waited, patient menace. “Your hand. On me.”
“Ask,” she said, velvet over steel.
“Please,” I blurted, already shaking. “Please, Cassie.”
“That’s my girl.” She slid one hand down, fingers parting me with obscene gentleness, and set a thumb where I was aching. Not a tease—pressure. Slow circles that matched the pace of her hips. The world went narrow and bright. My scent sparked sharp-citrus and marshmallow heat; hers thickened to vanilla and lightning and mine.
“Look at me,” she panted, and I did, dragging my gaze up to those crystalline eyes gone dark. Power poured through me in a hot, awful wave—her using my body to get off while keeping me steady, me letting her, choosing it. “Good. Keep your hands there. Keep breathing.”
“Bossy,” I said, breathless.
“Win it off me,” she shot back, teeth flashing. She changed the angle a hair and exhaled a sound so pretty I forgot English for a second. “Saints, your thigh—Mira—”
“Scoreboard says two–one,” I dared, because I’m a menace even when I’m dying. “I’m catching up.”
Her laugh broke in the middle and turned into a moan. She pressed down, rode harder, thumb never leaving its merciless, gorgeous pattern on my clit. “Say please again.”
“Please,” I whispered. “Cassie, please.”
“What do you want?” Her voice frayed—hungry and proud.
“I want—” I swallowed. Bravery hurt, even here. “I want you to come on me. I want to feel you do it.”
Her control slipped just enough to show teeth. “Please, Captain.”
“Confident.” Her grin went feral. “Count me down.”
“Five,” I said, dizzy.
“Four,” she echoed, grinding through it.
“Three.” My voice failed. She didn’t.
“Two—” She broke on it, a low, glorious sound as she pushed and came, shuddering on my thigh, pulse staccato against my skin, slick heat painting me. Heat shimmered off my skin; steam curled where our bodies met; she stayed cool and sure at the center of it. I held perfectly still, hands white-knuckled on the headboard like she’d ordered, while she rode it out with little aftershocks that made her curse prettily into my mouth.
When her breathing found rhythm again, she didn’t move her thumb. If anything, the circles got more precise.
“Scoreboard says two–two,” I panted, near tears with how badly I needed. “Let me—”
“Ask,” she said softly, eyes bright with victory and affection.
“Let me come,” I begged, shameless now. “Please, Cassie, fuck—please.” I begged. Queens don’t beg. I wanted to for her.
“Good.” She kissed me, quick and hot, and gave me exactly what I needed—no faster, no kinder—pressure steady, angle perfect, her thighs still trembling around my leg while she held me together with her voice. “With me,” she murmured, forehead to mine. “Breathe. Take it.” “That’s it. Good girl.”
The heat crested—slow, hard, earned. I shattered on a cry I’d deny in daylight, coming around her thumb and the sure press of her palm, my scent bursting marshmallow-caramel and storm-petrichor, ozone sparking at the edges as the aftershocks ebbed. Heat shimmered; the window blurred another breath; the headboard sighed.
She eased me down with obscene competence, gentling her hand until I was just shaking instead of trying to fly out of my skin. She slid my hands free and kissed each palm like an apology she didn’t owe. Then she slid her thigh free and collapsed alongside me, both of us wrecked and grinning like idiots.
“Call it even,” I shot back, dazed and thrilled.
She kissed the corner of my mouth. “Best of forever.”
“Greedy.”
“Hungry,” she corrected, and her eyes flicked lower, wicked. “Hands where I put them again?”
I lifted my arms, smiling like a sinful saint. “Try me.”
“Good,” she said—and put me exactly where she wanted me.
Cassie laced our fingers, pressed my wrists to the headboard, and leaned in until her hair tickled my cheek. “Color?”
“Green,” I breathed. “Please.”
“Good.” She kissed the corner of my mouth like a prize and slid down my body, not in a rush—like she intended to memorize the route. Mouth at my throat, at the hollow, over the glitter that had survived our first two rounds. Her breath warmed the underside of my breast; her tongue flicked once over a nipple and I nearly wriggled out of my skin.
“Hands stay,” she warned, the smile in her voice wrecking me.
“I’m staying,” I lied.
“Mm.” She kept going—down my ribs, over my stomach—pausing to bite softly at the sharp of my hip, then soothing it with a kiss that made my toes curl. When she knelt between my thighs, she looked up, crystalline eyes gone dark, and my mouth went desert-dry.
“Say yes,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I said. “Cassie, yes.”
She didn’t tease the edges this time. She spread me with steady hands, breathed me in like a secret, and then set her mouth on me—full, warm, and there. The first long drag of her tongue stole my breath clean; the second found a rhythm I knew was going to make me sob if she kept it. She kept it.
“Fuck,” I gasped, then clamped my teeth on the word.
“Language escalation accepted,” she said against me, the vibration a sin. “You taste like sugar and thunder. Open for me.”
I opened, helpless. My thighs tried to close around her shoulders; she pushed them wider with a possessive press of her palms and took another slow, devastating pass. Heat flared bright-citrus; the rain-sharp ache of storm rose under my skin. She groaned, honest and hungry, and the sound unraveled something low in my spine.
“Look at me,” she said, lifting her head just enough for me to find her eyes.
“Bossy,” I whispered, but I looked, and it felt like being caught and held at the same time.
“Good.” She dropped back to me and got mean in the prettiest way—tongue flattening, then tip precise, alternating until my hips stuttered and a helpless, humiliating noise broke out of me.
“Hands,” she reminded gently when my fingers slipped on the headboard.
I gripped harder. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” she said, and the praise almost did me in. “Do you want my fingers?”
The question slid through me like hot metal. “Yes. Inside—slow.”
“Green?” she checked, even now.
“Green,” I said, dizzy with being loved like this.
Her mouth didn’t leave me when her hand joined, one finger easing in with careful pressure, then a pause, then the smallest curl that lit fireworks behind my eyes. She waited for my breath to settle before she added a second, the stretch filling and perfect, her palm turned just so while her tongue never lost the cadence that had me shaking.
“Rivals’ truce,” she murmured against me. “You come when you ask. Until then, you take it.”
“That’s not a truce,” I said, voice shredded. “That’s a hostage situation.”
“Then surrender,” she said sweetly, and sealed her mouth again, sucking gentle before circling with obscene patience.
I tried to be clever. I tried to count points. All I managed was, “Please,” wrecked, “please, Cassie, don’t stop,” and some aborted syllable that might have been her name or a prayer. She laughed, delighted, then focused—two fingers stroking, tongue drawing precise, coaxing circles that matched my breathing until the world narrowed to the slick slide and her sure voice anchoring me:
“With me, Mira. Breathe. Take it. That’s it. Good girl.”
“Gods,” I choked, and then, because we were long past pretending to be demure, “your mouth—saints—my pussy—”
Her answering sound was a sin all its own. “My favorite thing I’ve tasted,” she said, breathless honesty between strokes. “My queen’s quim.”
I would have combusted if she hadn’t been holding me together so ruthlessly. The word hit like a match; I lurched, she pinned my thigh, and the room glowed at the edges with heat I couldn’t manage alone.
“Ask,” she said, lifting a fraction to breathe, lips slick, eyes wild. “Beg me pretty.”
“Please,” I said, shameless now. “Please let me come. Let me—Cassie, please.”
“That’s it,” she whispered, and gave me exactly what I asked for—no faster, no gentler. Tongue firm, suction precise, fingers curling just so—and I broke, hard, in a clean, rolling detonation that pulled a cry out of me I didn’t recognize as mine. Everything spiked—marshmallow caramelized, citrus snapped bright, storm-petrichor surged—and then eased, my body shaking around her hand while she stayed with me, easing me down like landing a bird.
When my breathing stopped tripping, she withdrew with almost painful care and pressed a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, then higher again, trailing heat until she could climb up my body and lay her weight over me. Her mouth found mine; I tasted myself there and groaned, grabbing for her—forgetting, then remembering—and she laughed into the kiss and caught my wrists again, pinning them gently back where they belonged.
“Score?” she asked, smug and wrecked and shining.
“Three–two,” I said, and then, because I had some pride left, “for both of us.”
“Terrible math,” she teased, and nipped my lip. “Best of forever still stands.”
She brushed her hair aside, baring the long line of her throat like a secret. “Later,” she murmured. “If you want me—claim me.” My fangs ached.
“Greedy,” I murmured, eyes stinging with something that wasn’t just heat.
“Hungry,” she corrected, softer, and rested her forehead against mine. “Again?”
“Try me,” I said, and then my arms went heavy, pleasure-drunk. Cassie saw it; of course she did.
“Color?”
“Green,” I breathed, softer now. “Maybe… pale green.”
Her smile gentled. She loosened my wrists from the headboard, massaged the faint crescents her fingers had left—careful half-moons—and kissed each pulse point like an apology.
“Before water,” she murmured, voice gone velvet-steady. “You keep looking at my throat.”
I swallowed. Heat curled low and bright. “Cassie… queens don’t beg.”
“My Queen will,” she said, wicked-soft, “or she won’t get what she wants.”
My pride tried to rise; my body knelt without moving. “Please,” I whispered, feral-soft. “Please let me mark you. I’m begging.”
“Good girl,” she breathed, color high in her cheeks. “Green?”
“Green,” I said, shaking.
She tipped her head, baring the long line of her neck, hands loose and open where I could see them. “I trust you.”
I leaned in, breath skimming her pulse. “Tell me to stop.”
“I won’t,” she said, and the certainty undid me.
I kissed first—mouth, then tongue, then the soft scrape of teeth. Her breath hitched; my fire flared and rolled harmlessly around her, a warm hush against cool skin. When she whispered “Mine,” I sank my fangs in—precise, reverent, twin points that made her gasp and clutch at the sheets without pulling. Salt-copper bloomed; magic leapt between us like a struck wire. I sealed the marks with my tongue, heat closing the punctures into a faint, luminous crescent that would hide under her collar and burn in my memory forever.
“Cassie,” I said, wrecked and grateful.
“Yours,” she answered, voice shaking in a way that made me feel steadier. “Now water.”
“Scoreboard’s off,” she added, a grin ghosting her mouth. “We won already.”
I huffed a laugh and caught her pinky with mine. “Don’t run away.”
“Never.” She kissed my knuckles and slid off the bed with that captain’s competence that makes my bones feel safe. A drawer, a hush of pouring. When she came back she had two glasses and a soft cloth. She warmed the cloth between her hands.
“May I?”
“Yes,” I said, cheeks hot, throat tight.
She cleaned me slow, reverent—no flinching, no hurry. Every pass felt like a vow I hadn’t known I needed: we get to be tender after we’re hungry. A faint curl of steam lifted where cloth met my skin; she didn’t so much as blink. When she finished, she pressed the cloth to her own lips, smirking like she knew exactly what that did to my heartbeat, then set it aside and handed me water.
We drank together. The room tasted different now—sweet air, the faintest rain-snap from my skin; her vanilla warmed into something that felt like home. She sat and I leaned, shameless, until my head found her shoulder. The rise and fall of her chest under my cheek called my breath into line.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked, quiet as the dark. “Anywhere?”
“No.” I shook my head against her skin. “You were… perfect.” The word made my voice break. “Were you?”
Her laugh was low and wrecked in the best way. “I’m going to be insufferably proud for a week.”
“Only a week?” I tipped my face up. “Aim higher.”
“Month, then.” She tucked a curl behind my ear, so domestic I could have cried. “Tell me something you liked.”
“Your voice,” I said without thinking. “The way you… kept me.” I swallowed. “And your mouth. Saints, Cass. Your mouth.”
Her cheeks pinked, which was delicious. “Good data. And you?” She toyed with one earring, catching the light. “You on your knees looking like a miracle. Your hands when you got brave. The way you asked.” A beat, softer. “The way you looked at me like I was allowed to have you.”
I shut my eyes and breathed around the ache that line put in my chest. My scent eased from bright citrus into something gentler—marshmallow-warm, rain settling back toward ocean-calm.
“No court tonight,” she murmured, forehead to mine. “No prophecy.”
“Just us,” I echoed, like a spell we’d keep casting until it stuck.
She slid under the sheet and pulled me with her, arranging us with ridiculous care: me half on her, leg over her hip, her arm a pillow beneath my neck. When I fidgeted—three-tap revving—she caught my pinky and stilled it; when my knee bounced, she pressed her thigh to mine until the impulse unwound.
“Still green?” she checked, because she will always ask.
“Sleep-green,” I said, smiling into her collarbone.
She laughed, pressed a lazy kiss to my hairline. “What do you need before we fall over?”
I thought about lying. Then didn’t. “Tell me we can do this again. Tomorrow. A thousand tomorrows.”
“Greedy,” she teased, then her voice went certain. “We’ll take all of them. Slow or filthy. Your pick. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bossy.”
“Bespoke,” she corrected, smug and soft, and drew the sheet up over my shoulders. “Close your eyes, Firefly.”
I did. Our crowns glinted from the mantel, small and still. Somewhere far off, the world kept breathing, but in here the only things that moved were our chests and the slow unwinding of heat into comfort.
“Happy birthday,” she murmured as my thoughts floated.
“Happy birthday,” I mumbled back. “Best of forever.”
“Best of forever,” she agreed, and I felt her smile against my hair. “We’ll start counting tomorrow.”
We drifted on each other’s breathing—crowns quiet on the mantel, the room still as held breath—and sleep took us the way we’d wanted everything tonight to take us: slow, sure, and together.

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Chapter 60: Nothing Between Us