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abraxos-and-ataraxia · 1 year

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He Saw Sunlight

Pairing: Lucien x Elain

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: none

Summary: When Lucien visits Velaris for the winter solstice, things don't go the way they usually do...

My @acotargiftexchange present for @elliemarchetti 🎁 I hope you enjoy!

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Somehow, forced cheer had become Lucien’s winter solstice tradition. As the years passed, he found it more difficult to send word that he wouldn’t be visiting Velaris after all, so he found himself in Feyre’s sprawling manor each and every year. He always brought two gifts—another tradition—one for Feyre and one for Elain. In later years, he befriended the eldest Archeron well enough to know her tastes. Filthy romance novels from his travels were always sure to please her. The rest of the inner circle were pleased enough with his lack of presents, if only to excuse their own.

After so many solstices, Lucien had grown used to Elain’s polite expressions. She opened his gifts with grace, a quiet thank you, and then set them aside. He’d never seen her use any of them since unwrapping the paper. A part of him wondered if he should stop trying so hard. Yet Lucien could not stop knocking on their snow-dusted door.

He’d arrived with time to spare, so he was sitting in a plush armchair by the fireplace when he caught a glimpse of movement from the hall. Lucien turned just in time to see Elain darting out the door, a bright red cloak swirling behind her. He frowned, glancing at the clock above the mantel—there was only an hour before dinner. Where was she going so soon before the festivities? Then his frown deepened—was she meeting someone else for the solstice? Surely Feyre would have told him…but then again, she’d kept plenty of secrets in the past.

Something tugged at him, like he was at the end of a long string. He didn’t stop to consider anything further. Soon, Lucien found himself following the footprints in the snow, heedless of the cold nipping at his cheeks.

Elain’s red cloak glowed like a beacon in the rapidly darkening streets of Velaris. Her pace was brisk, but Lucien’s long legs allowed him to keep her in view. He watched her carefully, noting her cheerful grin, the way she waved at local shopkeepers as they closed for the night. Elain seemed to know all of them, from the sound of their casual greetings.

When she ducked under a snowy awning, Lucien held his breath, unsure what sight awaited him next. But to his surprise, Elain merely pulled out her wallet. She exchanged coin for a pastry before ambling down the street once more. Curious, Lucien darted over to the shop’s window, keeping one eye on that bright spot of crimson. “Excuse me,” he began.

But the shopkeeper ignored him, pressing a pastry into his open hands. “Happy solstice,” the older male said with a smile. Before Lucien could offer up any money, the male closed the window once more.

Baffled, and more than a bit suspicious, Lucien inspected his newest gift. Some sort of lemon cake, draped in a thin layer of icing, and small enough that he finished the pastry in two bites. Satisfaction curled in his stomach, followed by another small tug. He listened to it, turning down the street to follow those footprints. He hardly needed the trail—he could find her anywhere. His mate, that gentle pull reminded him.

He followed Elain across the city as night fell, blanketing Velaris in starlight that reflected off the recent snowfall. For the first time since Feyre revealed the well-kept secret, Lucien let himself be dazzled. It was a beautiful city, filled with colorful people and brilliant sights. Eventually, he stopped minding the time and started appreciating the art and food and music that ran through the city like its lifeblood.

Eventually, he forgot that he was following Elain to find out where she was going, and he let himself get lost in the places she led him to.

“Do you like it?” The question, softly spoken, almost failed to catch his attention. But the bond thrummed in his chest like a harp string, carefully plucked.

“I am afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Lucien said, turning around slowly.

Elain dipped her head, a tentative smile flickering over her lips. She took a few steps closer, meeting him in the middle of the cobblestone street. Lucien couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Her rosy cheeks, the way she twisted her fingers together, the hood draped precariously over her spill of bronze curls. It took all of his strength to stand still, to keep from reaching out to her.

“The city,” Elain said, her eyes glittering up at him. “Do you like it?”

Thinking of all the lovely places he’d followed her to, his nod was automatic. “Velaris is a beautiful city.”

“Yes,” Elain waved his answer away, mouth pursed with the stirrings of irritation. “But do you like it?”

Lucien blinked. “I liked the bakery,” he began again. “Lemon cakes are some of my favorites.”

“They’re my favorite cakes in the whole city.”

Encouraged, Lucien continued. “I liked the lights strung around the market square and the bridge over the waterfall.”

“I’m glad of it,” Elain said, smile widening.

“The hot chocolate was some of the best I’ve ever had,” Lucien went on.

“Oh?” Elain frowned, brows furrowing. “So you’ve had better?”

With a careful nod, he explained his centuries of travel across Prythian. “The Winter Court has some of the best coffee shops, and one of them serves my favorite hot chocolate.”

“I’d like to go one day. To try it.”

Lucien blinked at her again. “I didn’t think—”

“That I would want to?” Elain shook her head, her cheeks pinkening further. “I’m sorry, I’m going about this all wrong. I just wanted to talk to you and I couldn’t think of any other way to start.”

Mind utterly blank, Lucien simply stared at her. She wanted to talk to him? He would gladly speak of the weather, of the color of the sky, of anything she wanted. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “I’m happy to start however you’d like, but perhaps you can explain what your plan was tonight. Where are you going on solstice? Shouldn’t we get back to the house?”

“Well…this was the plan.” Elain fussed with the edge of her cloak, biting her lip firmly enough that Lucien worried she might break the skin. “I showed you my favorite places. I hope that one day, you might show me some of yours.”

Lucien watched her carefully. His mate, whom he had assumed wanted nothing to do with him, now reaching across the chasm between them. How could he do anything but meet her in the middle? He smiled, waiting for Elain to look at him again. “You hope, or you know?”

When she smiled back, the bond between them started to glow. “I may have Seen a few things, but I won’t spoil them for you. For us,” Elain corrected. “The future is always changing.”

“I’m glad of this change,” he said. Glad, too, that he could be honest with her. That she wasn’t running away. That he knew the warmth of Elain’s smile directed at him. That he wasn’t dreaming again.

Before he could suggest they return to the manor, Elain hooked his elbow with hers, tugging him down the street once more. Struck dumb by the unexpected contact, Lucien didn’t try to argue.

They walked until their noses turned red from the cold, and Lucien had to summon small flames to warm their fingers. They talked until Lucien’s voice was hoarse, and Elain led them to a cozy pub open late for revelers. They drank until Elain demanded a dance, then three, and they stumbled out into the snow, still laughing. And when the stars began to wink out, they meandered through the snowy city, making their way home together.

“Tell me something, Lucien.”

“Anything,” he said, meeting her gaze, holding it. For a moment, the two of them stood still, suspended in that moment of complete and utter sincerity.

“Tell me something that makes you happy.”

Following the golden heat of the bond in his chest, Lucien leaned forward. He waited there, Elain’s mouth just out of reach, until she broached the distance herself. They tumbled into the kiss, head over heels, lips parting only to return seconds later. He couldn’t stay away. Only one taste, and he knew there could never be another. Lucien was lost to her.

“You,” he breathed against her, their lips brushing. And behind his closed lids, he saw sunlight. “You, Elain.”

#acotar secret santa 2022 #elucien fic #elucien fluff #elucien fanfiction #elucien

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abraxos-and-ataraxia · 1 year

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This Changes Nothing

Pairing: Nesta x Rhysand

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: smut of the cheating variety

Summary: Nesta has finally arranged marriages for her two younger sisters, at the expense of her own future. But when she finds herself in questionable company with a man she’s been at odds with from the start, Nesta’s control finally snaps, and damn the consequences.

Happy birthday to @isterofimias (though this is technically a day late) I am honored to present the nesrhys you’ve been asking for 💕

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Nesta crept down the stairs, taking care not to wake the entirety of the Night manor. She’d been awake for hours, gradually losing herself in an endless refrain of what now?

Ever since Mrs. Archeron died, Nesta had shouldered the burden of guiding her sisters. She’d pinned hair, wiped tears, and investigated worthy gentlemen. And her work had paid off. Elain was happily married to Lord Lucien, and Nesta had finally found a suitor worthy of Feyre, as well. But after so many years of ignoring her own needs, Nesta could not stop wondering what came next. She was practically an old maid, having spent too long focused on marrying her sisters rather than herself. Who would want her? Had she accidentally doomed herself to a lonely future? Selflessness had never served someone so poorly, she thought bitterly.

Her bare toes hit the main floor, but she was not greeted with impenetrable darkness, as she might have expected for the late hour. Instead, a thin strip of light greeted her, peeking out from under the door to the library. Someone was still awake? She couldn’t imagine who else would be struggling to sleep like she was.

Nesta did her best to maintain quiet steps as she made her way to the kitchen. She’d initially planned on reading a book, but had no interest in company. Whoever was awake could stay that way.

But her next step landed on a loud section of flooring, the resulting creak announcing her presence in the hall. Nesta froze at the sound of footsteps within the library. She managed to hide her grimace by the time the door opened, revealing the last person she wanted to see at such a late hour—Rhysand, the Duke of Night.

With the amber glow of the fire at his back, the Duke cut a dark and imposing figure in the doorway. Wreathed in shadows, his face was impossible to read, though Nesta had seen enough of his behavior in recent weeks to suspect a smirk upon his lips.

“Your Grace,” Nesta greeted him, back stiff as she bobbed the smallest of curtsies. Though her mother had thoroughly drilled Nesta in etiquette and manners, every show of deference to the Duke was a struggle. She detested the man. For her youngest sister, Nesta could remain polite in his company, but she was not required to enjoy it.

“Miss Archeron,” Rhysand drawled, tilting his head to inspect her. Nesta bristled at the arrogance dripping from his tone. An arrogance that permeated every interaction she had with the Duke. “You’re up late.”

“I could not sleep.”

“That much is evident,” he chuckled. Nesta’s fingers ached, curled into a too-tight fist at her side.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nesta bit out, the formality tasting bitter on her tongue. She turned to continue down the hall, but a large hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her up short.

“Join me.” Rhysand’s whispered invitation curled around her as firmly as his fingers at her elbow. The challenge in his voice was as compelling as the warmth of his hold. “At the very least, come and retrieve the book you came here for.”

Nesta yanked out of his grasp, pinning the Duke with an icy glare. “I was going to the kitchen,” she corrected him.

“Only because a light was on in here, I am sure,” he said, teeth flashing when he grinned. “Don’t let me scare you off, Miss Archeron.”

That last jab was enough to have Nesta brushing past him into the library. She stalked over to the far wall of books, ignoring the nerves that sprung to life when the door clicked shut behind her. “It is your library,” she said coolly. “I did not wish to intrude.”

“You are an invited guest, and welcome anywhere in my home.”

Nesta simply hummed in acknowledgement, scanning the shelves for anything of interest. Rhysand had dull taste, she noted. Not that she’d expected him to own dozens of steamy romances, but she’d hoped for more than encyclopedias and historical accounts of his family.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Nesta startled, finding the Duke a mere step behind her, peering over her shoulder with obvious curiosity.

A husband, she thought wryly. And that was certainly the wrong answer for the man set to marry Feyre in a week’s time. But after working tirelessly to ensure her two sisters’ engagements, watching the happy couples had slowly but surely stoked her need for the same.

But sorting through dozens of suitors had also provided Nesta with ample opportunities to realize that she would never find that same happiness. Besides being too old for a good match, none of the men she encountered would suit her. They were all too timid, too arrogant, too stupid. Some were too free with their kisses, others too free with their money. No rational argument could convince her to marry any of them. And none of them inspired a spark of attraction.

All but one.

“I suppose any of these would serve to put me to sleep, but I have a marked disinterest in dusty financial records,” Nesta said absently, trailing her fingers along the leather spines. Her skin prickled with awareness, confirming that the Duke remained at her back.

“I’m afraid my late father had no appreciation for novels or poetry, and you’ll find little of either in his libraries.” Footsteps sounded, muffled by the thick carpet. Then Rhysand was beside her, long fingers reaching for a book above her head. He held it between them, an offering that finally forced Nesta to look at him.

His inky hair gleamed in the warm glow of the fire. The normally pristine locks were slightly tousled, curling over his forehead to frame his piercing violet eyes. Long lashes kissed his high cheekbones, the strong lines of his face in direct contrast with the softness of his mouth. He smiled, the corner of his lips tilting up. Her stomach fluttered in response.

Nesta viciously stomped down on her reaction before the Duke could take note of it. She bit back a snarl, hating the way her body reacted to Rhysand almost as much as she detested the man himself. “What’s this?” Her voice remained even, to her relief.

“Bad poetry,” Rhysand said with a laugh. “At thirteen, I decided I would single-handedly correct the lack in our library. It wasn’t until page fifty that I finally realized I lacked any appreciable skill.”

Nesta raised a single brow, pinning him with a disbelieving look. “And why are you showing me this?”

“I hoped it would help convince you to stop glaring at me, Miss Archeron.”

“We’ll see,” she said. Privately, she resolved to improve her glare. She obviously wasn’t trying hard enough, if the Duke was still attempting to get in her good graces.

Rhysand was going to marry her sister in a matter of days. And as long as Nesta was struggling with her unwanted feelings, she knew it was best to keep her distance. And encourage the Duke to keep his, as well.

“Well?”

Nesta cleared her throat, stepping around the Duke. She gave him a wide berth on her way to the door. “I’ll read it in my room,” she said.

“No need to run away,” Rhysand said, his mocking tone bringing her to a halt with one hand on the knob. “I promise I don’t bite, Miss Archeron.”

Nesta inhaled sharply, annoyance flaring enough to overwhelm the interest pooling in her stomach. She whirled, a sneer already fixed on her lips. “In case you’ve forgotten, I am an unmarried lady, and you are not a male relative. I will not be spending more time than is absolutely necessary alone in your presence.” Her eyes narrowed further, “Especially at this hour.”

“Are you implying that I am capable of untoward behavior?” Rhysand’s lips curled into a familiar smirk.

Nesta fought a growl, wanting nothing more than to wipe the taunting expression from his face. “I could not possibly insult my family’s gracious host,” she said, maintaining her cold sneer. “Especially when his actions imply more than my words ever could.”

Dark brows winged upwards in surprise. Rhysand leaned back against the bookshelves, watching her with that infuriating grin of his. “Go on, then,” he waved at her. “I know you have an impassioned speech ready.”

She blew out an incredulous breath. “Good night,” Nesta said firmly, twisting the doorknob. But before she could wrench the door open, a hand slammed into the wood, keeping it shut. When she whirled to face the Duke, his other arm snaked over her shoulder, caging her in against the door. With his face mere inches from her own, Nesta found it suddenly difficult to breathe.

“Tell me,” Rhysand dared her, leaning in until his warm breath fanned across her cheeks. “All of the things you find lacking in me.”

“Your limitless arrogance, to start,” Nesta hissed, leaning her head against the door in an attempt to maintain some distance between them.

“I prefer confidence, but do go on.”

“Your tasteless disregard for boundaries and personal space,” Nesta snapped, jutting her chin out to indicate the present example.

But the Duke simply chuckled, the sound rumbling through her at such close proximity. “You don’t seem that opposed to it,” he said. And damn her traitorous body for shivering in response. The gleam in Rhysand’s eyes indicated that he noticed it.

Before he could pounce, Nesta continued her tirade. “Your penchant for cruelty.”

Those expressive eyebrows winged up again. “Ah, but that is merely a rumor, Miss Archeron,” he said. “Have you ever witnessed this so-called cruelty?”

Nesta pursed her lips. “I have no concrete proof of—”

“Then there you have it,” Rhysand interrupted. “Rumor, and therefore an ineligible argument. Continue.”

Nesta bared her teeth at him. “High-handed, brutish, impolite,” she said, wracking her brain for more adjectives to pile on the list. “A marked lack of appreciation for your staff, disdain for your tenants and family members—”

“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Rhysand commented.

“In addition to this flagrant disregard of your own engagement to my sister,” Nesta continued, ignoring his interruption. “As you are currently breaching social protocol around an unmarried woman who is—most notably—not your betrothed, and therefore putting my own honor at risk.”

Rhysand’s white teeth flashed, his grin growing wider by the second. “Tell me how you feel about me, Nesta,” he said, every word a searing brand against her skin.

She arched off the door, throat tight around the words that wished to escape. But no amount of propriety could keep them bottled up after the Duke had stoked her fury. “I despise you,” Nesta raged, the words leaving her lips like a hiss of steam.

Violet eyes gleamed as bright as stars, but before she could repeat her vicious sentiments, his mouth crashed against hers. Surprise held her immobile, frozen as Rhysand’s plush lips attacked her own. She was helpless against the onslaught, the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body surrounding her, caging her. For a moment, Nesta was just as much a captive to her body’s instinctive thrumming as she was to the Duke’s insistent kiss.

Reality dug cold fangs into her skin. Just as quickly, her palms found Rhysand’s chest, pushing forcefully. The Duke stumbled back, eyes dark as he blinked at her.

“No,” Nesta told him, forcing the wobble out of her voice.

“You want this as much as I do,” Rhysand said, arms reluctantly dropping to his sides.

“No,” she repeated. “I hate you.”

“And I hate you,” Rhysand said with a short laugh. “The cold and imperious sister, of course I can’t stand you.” The barb struck home, and Nesta’s spine stiffened to the brink of pain. She gritted her teeth against a retort—anything she said would sound foolish. “When do you leave?”

Nesta blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“When do you leave?” The Duke repeated his question, backing away from her abruptly to pace the length of the library.

“After the wedding. Why?”

“Because you vex me enough to ignore all of your rational little arguments,” he said, stalking across the room with lethal grace. Rhysand stopped, the tips of his shoes a scant inch from her bare toes. “Because you are alone with me wearing naught but a nightgown and a shawl that is perilously easy to rip from your body.”

Nesta gulped down air, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her body. She refused to appear vulnerable before the Duke, especially when his gaze was fixed on hers, watching for any sign of weakness.

“Because,” Rhysand continued, voice dropping to a sensuous whisper. “I am a gentleman. And I am going to marry your sister.”

“You are going to marry my sister,” Nesta repeated firmly.

“And yet.” Rhysand stood still, inhaling deeply. His chest heaved, nearly brushing her own.

Nesta was struck with the sudden urge to close her eyes, to lean into his addictive warmth. When the Duke managed to shut his mouth, she forgot his irritating nature. In the dim light of the library, with nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing and her heartbeat in her ears, Nesta found it damningly hard to remember the upcoming wedding.

Her stomach shivered again, languid heat spreading through her limbs until every inch of her was warm, throbbing, needy. She swayed forward, then back, pressing her shoulders into the door.

Rhysand followed her, leaning in until his nose brushed against her ear, breath tickling the hair escaping from her braid. “Tell me,” he murmured, the words shivering over the skin of her neck. “You do not care for me.”

Nesta lifted her chin, not realizing the movement gave him greater access until lips ghosted across the exposed flesh. She shuddered. “I do not,” she began shakily. Nesta swallowed hard when Rhysand pressed a firmer kiss to her pulse. “Care for you.”

“Try again.” Rhysand traced her jawline with his nose, lips finding the sensitive space beneath her other ear. “And make me believe it.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, willing her heart to stop pounding so hard, so that she might think clearly once more. “I do not care for you,” she said, injecting steel into the words.

Fingers teased at her waist, making Nesta jump in his hold. She could feel Rhysand smile against her neck. “Liar.”

Suddenly the pounding of her heart was too much and not enough. Suddenly Nesta was tired of the role she’d taken up, caring for everyone but herself. Suddenly Nesta didn’t care anymore. Or at least, she did not care for anything but the desire unspooling within her like she’d never experienced before. Like she feared she would never feel again.

Her fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, and then Nesta was pulling him to meet her lips, her need outweighing all of her previous arguments. How could kissing the Duke of Night be wrong when it felt so deliciously right?

For one weightless moment, Nesta felt her awareness of the world shrink to the brush of her mouth on his. She sighed into the kiss, every muscle turned liquid from the relief of it. The sudden lack of pressure, of worry, was just as heady as the longing in her core.

Just as quickly, the Duke turned the gentle moment into something more, something almost vicious. He nipped at her mouth, demanding entry. His tongue swept into her mouth, taking advantage of Nesta’s surprised gasp. Pleasure unfurled in her belly as Rhysand tasted her, devoured her. And when he pulled back, he wore a conqueror’s smile.

So Nesta attacked, lips and teeth and tongue initiating a battle of wills. Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him where she wanted. Nesta took what she wanted from him. She fed the hunger, the beast that dwelled within her skin, not knowing how else to satisfy it. But as she and Rhysand panted, groaned softly into each other’s mouths, her need only deepened.

The Duke’s hands slid down her body in a sensuous caress, heat following in his path. Nesta broke away from his mouth, sucking down precious air. “More,” she demanded.

A flash of teeth. “Such fine manners.”

Nesta snarled, tightening her fist in his hair. She wrenched his head back, exposing his neck to her greedy mouth. Nesta bit down on sensitive flesh, a wordless command. One that Rhysand obeyed.

One hand gripped her thigh, pulling it up and around his waist. The skirt of her nightgown rose, exposing her leg to the knee. Rhysand pressed his hips forward, nestling in the cradle of her thighs. She felt the hot, hard length of him against her core. Even with the layers of his clothes and hers, she felt him. Nesta muffled her moan against his throat.

“You want this,” Rhysand murmured, his voice a dark caress. He rocked forward, the resulting pressure sending sparks through her veins, all the way to her fingertips. “You want me.”

Nesta dug her teeth into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, making him groan. Hazy thoughts surfaced, giving her pleasure an edge of bitterness. “You’re marrying my sister in a week,” she said through numb lips.

She made to pull away, but Rhysand’s other hand found her breast, gripping possessively. “And yet,” he said, smirking down at her. “Here you are.”

Disgusted—with herself as much as him—Nesta sneered right back at him. “You’re an animal.”

Warm fingers tickled the skin at her knee, making Nesta suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her position. She was all but splayed open for Rhysand, utterly defenseless where he had her pinned against the door. And with no one to witness them, he could do anything he wanted to her.

No amount of guilt managed to slow her racing pulse.

Nesta’s breath shuddered when those devious fingers reached her inner thigh, pausing a scant inch away from where she needed him most. Rhysand grinned, eyes glimmering with sensual awareness. He knew exactly what he would find at her core. And his smirk told her all she needed to know—he wouldn’t touch her until he got what he wanted. “Tell me you want this,” Rhysand said, staring her down. The violet starlight was nearly swallowed by his dark pupils.

Nesta gritted her teeth. Resistance was ingrained in her, as was the need to fight. She was not accustomed to giving into anyone’s demands, let alone those of a haughty Duke soon to marry her youngest sister. Yet with her heart pounding hard and fast, her thighs quivering with anticipation, Nesta found it harder to maintain her resolve. She had no defense against the lust flaming in her blood. “I want this,” Nesta finally said, the words a low hiss of rage and need and guilt. But she did.

Her back bowed against the door when Rhysand’s hand found her core, slick with wanting. His thick fingers explored the length of her slit, finding the spot at her apex that made her thighs tighten around his hips. “There you are,” Rhysand murmured, tracing her jaw with his lips. He found her earlobe, nipped lightly. Then plunged a finger into her channel.

Nesta’s lungs emptied, her inner muscles rippling around the sudden intrusion. A bright flicker of pain followed by a pleasant pressure. And when Rhysand curled his finger, flicking against her walls, pleasure licked up her spine, curling her toes. “Oh,” she breathed.

Rhysand nipped at her ear, drawing her attention. “Tell me you want me, Nesta.”

Her back stiffened, but Rhysand’s fingers worked faster, distracting her from whatever retort rose to the surface. For a few moments, Nesta forgot everything but the slow plunge and retreat at her core, the rapidly building heat. She panted softly, hands curling into the loose fabric of his shirt. “Faster,” Nesta finally managed.

“Not yet,” Rhysand purred. And his fingers slowed to a halt inside her, thumb brushing featherlight against her sensitive nub. The teasing ratcheted up her need until Nesta felt like tearing at her own skin. “Tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll continue.”

“Slimy bastard,” she hissed, digging her nails into the firm wall of his chest. When he winced, she dug deeper. “Pompous ass.”

His fingers slid out of her, leaving her empty and wanting. Nesta’s hips rocked forward of their own accord, seeking relief. Rhysand’s smirk said it all. “You know the words, Miss Archeron.”

She bared her teeth. Rather than give in without a fight, she slid both hands down, deftly unhooking his trousers. Shock blossomed in his piercing violet gaze, but before he could stop her, Nesta wrapped her fingers firmly around his throbbing member. Then it was Rhysand’s turn to growl, shuddering at her demanding touch.

Nesta ran her fingers up the long, hard length of him. The skin was soft, but the muscle beneath was hard as iron. Perhaps harder, she marveled, finally pulling him free of the trousers. Impossibly large, she thought. But she was nothing if not determined. And with the firelight edging him in gold, she thought he was beautiful, as well. Light glimmered on the head, where a bead of liquid had formed. Nesta ran her thumb over it, collecting the single drop and bringing it to her lips. Rhysand watched her with hungry eyes as she tasted him. “God, but I want you,” he said hoarsely. “I want you so badly, it hurts.”

Nesta’s lips curled, all sharp edges. “Show me.”

Then Rhysand was devouring her, licking into her mouth like he might swallow her whole. His hands slid up her legs and under her nightgown. His palms found the globes of her ass, squeezed, lifted. And then her feet were off the ground, her thighs locked around his waist. Rhysand pressed forward until there was no space left between them, his chest crushed against hers, his member nestled between them. He slotted into place at her core as though he belonged there.

“Nesta,” Rhysand said. Somehow, he made her name sound as much like a curse as a prayer. Answer and demand. He rocked his hips, his steely length sliding along her core. Pleasure burst behind her lashes as he rubbed against her most sensitive flesh.

Vulnerable, vulnerable, Nesta reminded herself. And yet he still sought her permission. So she arched her back, pressing her chest firmer against his, and reached until her lips caressed his chin. “Yes.”

That was all it took.

Rhysand seated himself within her with one sharp thrust. Pain made her cry out, but he muffled it with a languid kiss, swallowing the sound. Sheathed to the hilt, Nesta explored the sensations bombarding her. The fullness at her core. The scalding heat of Rhysand’s hips pressed against her own. The golden warmth in her lower belly, like she’d been drinking too much brandy. Nesta hoped it never stopped, this feeling. She wished she could languish in Rhysand’s arms for eternity.

When Rhysand retreated, she snarled softly, demanding his immediate return. And so he did, sinking deep into her once more. He chuckled, “Satisfied?”

“I hate you,” Nesta growled, wanting more than the infuriatingly slow thrusts he’d offered her. She wanted more, needed more. She decided to take it for herself, moving her hips in a circle, chasing that sensation of fullness. His soft grunt was as much a victory as the stiff cock seated within her.

“Tell me again,” Rhysand demanded, his voice a harsh rasp.

Nesta panted, eyes rolling back at the feeling of him. Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers as he rolled his hips, the delicious pressure at her core both torment and reward. “I hate you,” she said, breathless.

“Again,” Rhysand demanded with another pump of his hips.

“I loathe you.”

His next thrust was harder, deeper. Nesta moaned, clenching around his throbbing length. “Again,” he hissed.

“I despise you,” Nesta moaned, unable to keep her eyes open. Sensation battered her from all sides, overwhelming her. Finally. Finally. A distant wave crested, edging closer with every plunge. She reached for it with desperate fingers.

“And I. Don’t. Care,” Rhysand said, punctuating each word with his hips, driving so deep within her, Nesta wondered if he’d ever leave. She didn’t want him to. With Rhysand battering her insides, reality seemed so far away. Nesta didn’t miss it.

The door shuddered behind her, a victim of Rhysand's powerful thrusts. Nesta distantly wondered if they would wake the whole house. Just as quickly, pleasure hazed over the thought. She moaned, burying her face in Rhysand’s neck, dragging down deep inhales of sweat and musk and man. And just when she thought she’d hit her limit of pleasure, Rhysand’s hand slid down her belly, fingers searching out that nub at her core. Lightning struck, sending her over the edge with a sharp cry.

Bucking desperately against her, Rhysand’s thrusts turned erratic. Within a matter of moments, he was groaning into her ear, shuddering between her thighs. Wet warmth announced his completion inside her. And it was just as heady a sensation as all the rest. Nesta sighed, satisfaction loosening her limbs until her legs uncurled from around Rhysand’s waist. He let her drop to the floor, bare toes curling against the hard wood.

Cold emotions loomed on the other side of the door. But for a moment, Nesta looked up at the Duke. Her throat tightened with something unnamable. “This changes nothing,” she finally said. “Does it?”

Proving himself just as canny as she, Rhysand simply nodded. “The wedding will continue as planned.”

She refused to acknowledge the claws tearing her stomach into ribbons. It wasn’t until she was safely tucked beneath her sheets that she realized how much she’d wished for his answer to be different.

#nesta x rhysand #nesta x rhys #nesta x rhysand smut #acotar fic #nesrhys

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