My Endless Knight was training as if possessed, as if he might blow from tension. He was no more satisfied with our current situation than I was.

Had he decided to give me time to grieve? Maybe he thought any move on his part would spook me. Or he simply didn’t know enough about relationships in general.

We’d slept together; now what? It wasn’t as if either of us had a lot of experience.

But I’d signed on with him. I’d accepted him as my husband. We both had needs that were not being met. So I decided to make it really easy for him.

Knowing he would be outside for a few hours, I began moving my things into his master suite—to Cyclops’s snuffling dismay. “Sorry, boy. Married life requires some privacy.”

In the bathroom, I arranged my toiletries on my half of the marble vanity. His armor hung on a stand; I tossed my silk nightgown over it, just to see what he’d say.

I hung up my clothes in the closet beside Aric’s and cleaned out a few drawers for my things.

In one, I kept a cherished remembrance. . . .

Then I started making some real changes. His sole piece of furniture was a carved sleigh bed. I directed my vines to move more pieces in. Soon my laptop sat charging on the new bedside table.

His ceiling and walls were solid black, the floor black marble. I figured a couple of the walls should be mine. On one, I created a vertical garden, styling blooms into a red infinity symbol. I began decorating the other wall using paint he’d sourced for me.

As I moved my brush, I wondered how he would react to all this. I hoped by kissing me.

On the many occasions I’d watched him training in his leather pants and chain-mail shirt, I’d lusted over him. And I’d had sensual dreams of him that hadn’t arisen from the past. In one, I’d run my lips over all the runes on his chest, tracing them with my tongue before descending.

Now that I was married, there were things I wanted to try, things I’d heard about from Mel and other girls in school. And since I’d vowed to myself to have no regrets . . .

God, if Aric only knew what I was imagining right now.

I’d just finished up when I heard his spurs down the hall. His footsteps slowed. He must’ve smelled the blooms and the paint.

He opened the door. He was sweating and streaked with mud, looking so magnificent he temporarily blanked my thoughts.

His gaze swept over my changes: my gown tossed over his armor, my new garden and artwork. In the center of a black wall, I’d painted a huge white rose.

Like his banner.

His lips curled, and his eyes went starry. “You moved in?”

“I take it you’re okay with the plan?”

“Delighted.” He crossed to stand before me, then cradled my face in his hands. “I didn’t want to pressure you. And I didn’t know if you would want to officially mourn.”

So old-fashioned. Which, considering his age, was understandable. “I thought you wanted your privacy.”

He exhaled. “My own doing. I was an ass about that when I first forced you to live here.”

I couldn’t argue with him on that score. “I also worried that you might like sleeping in your bed alone.”

“That bed is four hundred years old, which means I’ve spent a lot of time in it fantasizing about you. Once I have you there again, I suspect I will have little control at first. I was attempting to be a gentleman and refrain, so the couch seemed a safer bet.”

“We can’t wait for anything. I’m greedy for time with you.”

He grinned as he ran his thumb over my forehead. Had I smudged paint there?

“Neither of us has experience with this,” I said. “But if you ever have questions, talk to me, okay? If you ever need something, you have to let me know.”

Nod. “If you will talk to me as well.”

“I promise.”

His tone grew husky as he added, “At present, I do have an urgent need.” His deep voice made my heart race.

I wetted my lips. “What’s that?”

“To wash this paint off my wife.” He leaned down and took my mouth. How could I have already gotten so addicted to his kiss? He slanted his mouth, deepening the contact.

Between kisses, we somehow managed to strip each other and make it into the shower. We washed and explored.

His rough hands on my breasts. My palms gliding over his chest and lower.

I nuzzled his runes and licked the skin. As I had in my dream, I followed the slashing marks down.

He realized my intention, and a gust of breath left his lips. Eyes aglow, he threaded his fingers through my hair. The lower I went, the more his hands shook on my head. His breaths grew hoarse.

When I kissed, he gave a yell and bucked. Agonized sounds burst from his chest because I was sending him into the throes. Emboldened, I took him between my lips.

“Sievā,” he brokenly rasped. “Sievā! Gods almighty!” Yet even as his body quaked, he reverently caressed my face with the backs of his fingers. . . .

_______________

“You told me we would rewrite history,” he said as I lay against his chest later that night.

I was tracing his runes, relaxed and languid. Though he’d never had sex before me, he must’ve noted some wicked tricks over his long life.

My fingertip glided over a tattoo. “I dreamed of kissing these, following each one down your body. Even when I hated you, I had sexual dreams about you.”

“Welcome to my entire existence,” he said wryly. “When I got these marks, I never imagined they would guide your beautiful lips toward my delight. Tell me, was that a stray impulse?”