Amara's POV
The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the cadence of our breathing, heavy with desire.
His hands roamed my waist with a reverence that stole the air from my lungs. Not rough, not demanding—just intentional. Every touch felt like a vow. Every kiss was a promise. And when he whispered my name, it sounded like a prayer wrapped in need.
"Amara…" he breathed, voice low, almost trembling. "I don't want power tonight. I just want you."
My heart flipped.
My hands moved over his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart. His muscles flexed beneath my fingertips as I traced the lines of his body, memorizing the way he responded to my touch. Every sigh, every shiver, was mine. I leaned in, lips grazing his neck.
"I'm right here," I whispered. "All of me."
He slid closer, our bodies now flushed together—skin to skin, breath to breath. The heat was unbearable and addictive. I tilted my head, and our lips met again—deeper this time, less soft, more urgent. The kind of kiss that erased doubts. That claimed and surrendered all at once.
Our bodies moved in rhythm. A dance as old as time. Not just pleasure—it was connection. A silent conversation between soulmates. He made love like a man who'd held back too long. Like he needed to memorize every part of me in case the world took it away.
And I gave him everything.
Tears threatened the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of belonging. Of being wanted, not for the empire, not for strength, but for simply being the woman he trusted. Loved.
"I love you," I said, not even realizing the words had escaped.
He stilled—just for a moment.
Then he looked into my eyes with that fire that only he possessed. "Then love me harder," he said.
And I did.
Until night became morning.
Until I forgot the weight of the empire.
Until there was nothing left but Chris, me, and the silence that wrapped around us like a secret.