Strongest Incubus System

Damon’s hand slid along the curve of Morgana’s waist, his fingers finding the clasp of the dress she still wore from dinner with the Council. The fabric was rich and heavy, embroidered with the symbols of Arven—a constant reminder of who she was and everything she carried. But beneath his hands, it was only an obstacle.

His fingers worked at the fastening with a patience that contrasted with the restrained urgency burning between them. The dress gave way, opening along her back, and Damon pushed the fabric aside, exposing her warm skin beneath the thin layer of her inner corset.

Morgana arched involuntarily when his hands touched her. Her own fingers gripped his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles beneath his thin shirt.

"You are... surprisingly skilled with only one hand," she breathed, her voice a hoarse whisper against his mouth.

"Practice," he murmured in return, his lips tracing a line from hers to her jaw before moving down the curve of her neck. "And motivation."

His good hand—the left—slid forward, his fingers finding the laces of her corset. He pulled them not violently, but with an implacable determination that made Morgana hold her breath. The garment loosened, and he pushed it down, exposing her breasts to the cool air of the room.

She shivered, not from the cold, but from the sudden vulnerability and the way his dark eyes watched her. They were filled with a restrained fire she recognized from battle, but it had never been directed entirely at her.

Not like this.

There was no romance and no soft gentleness.

Only pure, raw, unfiltered desire.

"Damon," she said, his name both a warning and a plea.

He answered with action instead of words.

Reversing their positions in one fluid movement, he rolled her aside and then onto her back, placing her beneath him. His weight anchored her against the mattress, solid and real against the floating lightness taking hold of her.

He supported himself on one elbow, carefully avoiding pressing his injured right arm against her, while his other hand—that skillful, merciless hand—moved down her body.

His touch was not gentle.

It was neither exploratory nor hesitant.

It was possessive and deliberate.

His palm brushed over her hardened nipple, and Morgana moaned, her head falling back against the pillows. He squeezed, twisted lightly, and the moan became a muffled cry as she buried her fingers in his hair and pulled.

"Quieter," he whispered, his lips near her ear. "Remember the guards."

She bit her lip, the taste of blood and him mingling inside her mouth.

His hand left her breast and descended over her tense stomach until his fingers encountered the barrier of her skirts and petticoat. He did not bother untying anything.

With one sharp pull, the fabric tore.

The sound seemed surprisingly loud inside the silent room. Cool air reached her thighs, and Morgana gasped, her hips rising involuntarily.

"You... you are going to pay for that," she panted, staring at him with equal parts anger and desire. "That was silk."

"Send me the bill," he said in a low growl.

His hand found the junction of her thighs and touched her through the thin, damp fabric of her underwear.

"Or I can compensate you now."

She did not answer with words.

Instead, her hands went to his belts, undoing them with an urgency that matched his own. She pushed his trousers down, her fingers finding the rigid heat of his erection. Her hand closed around him, and this time it was Damon who held his breath, a grimace of raw pleasure passing across his face.

The reciprocity made them equals.

There was no longer a lord and vassal, duchess and adviser, patient and caretaker.

There were only two bodies, both marked by recent battles—hers by the scars of responsibility, his by more literal wounds—meeting inside a stolen space where none of those marks mattered.

Damon pulled her underwear aside with a sharp motion and positioned himself between her legs.

He did not kiss her again.

Instead, his eyes found hers and held her gaze as he entered her in one deep, relentless movement.

Morgana cried out, a guttural sound swallowed by Damon’s lips when he finally kissed her again, her voice mingling with his low growl.

There was no gentleness in their joining, no sweet preparation beyond what her own desire had provided.

It was a claim.

An assertion of possession that Morgana accepted with equal ferocity.

Her hips rose to meet his, her nails digging into his back and ignoring the bandages as she felt the tense muscles beneath his skin while he began to move.

The rhythm he established was brutal and efficient.

Every thrust went deep, forcing the air from her lungs and replacing it with waves of rising heat. He held her by the hip with his good hand, keeping her in place and dictating the angle and depth.

His other hand remained beside her head, the injured arm supporting part of his weight while his fist tightened around the sheets.

The sounds filling the room were not soft moans or declarations of love.

They were harsh breaths, skin striking skin, and the muffled creak of the bed shifting against the floor.

They were the sounds of two fighters, both accustomed to extracting victory from exhaustion, finding a different battle—one in which both of them could win.

Morgana threw her head back and closed her eyes, her world reduced to the feeling of him inside her, the weight of his body above hers, and the scent of sweat, old blood, and that distinct fragrance that belonged only to him.

Her hands traveled across his body, feeling old and new scars and the points of pain she knew he was ignoring. She touched the bandage around his arm and felt the dampness indicating that the wound might be bleeding again.

A perverse mixture of triumph and concern rose inside her.

He was hurting himself for this.

For her.

"Damon," she moaned, his name becoming a mantra. "More... faster."

He obeyed.

His rhythm increased, every thrust stronger than the last. The bed struck the wall now, a rhythmic, muffled impact echoing through the room.

Morgana no longer cared who might hear.

She allowed the moans to escape, loud and unrestrained, each one a blow against the oppressive silence of the mansion.

Her climax struck not like a wave, but an explosion.

It was neither soft nor prolonged.

It was violent, tearing a cry from her lips that Damon silenced with another voracious kiss. Her body arched and convulsed beneath him, her legs locking around his waist and holding him in place while waves of pleasure shook her.

Damon did not slow down.

His movements became more erratic and desperate. He buried his face against her neck, his teeth closing over the curve between her throat and shoulder—not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark that would last for days.

The sharp pain blended with the pleasure still coursing through her, and Morgana moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair and pulling.

With one final deep, guttural growl, Damon reached his own limit. His body stiffened above hers before trembling violently. He spilled inside her, each pulse accompanied by another rough sound escaping his lips.

He collapsed over her, his weight solid and satisfying, before quickly rolling aside to keep from crushing her beneath him.

For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing struggling to return to normal.

The air in the room was warm and heavy with their scent. The dim light cast restless shadows across the walls, illuminating Morgana’s torn dress on the floor, Damon’s trousers hanging from the foot of the bed, and the bandage around his arm now stained a darker red.

Morgana was the first to move.

She turned onto her side, rested her head on one hand, and looked at him. Her hair clung to her sweat-dampened face, her lips were swollen and red, and her eyes—normally so calculating—were dark and vivid.

"Ester," she said hoarsely, "is going to kill you."

Damon stared at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling.

"Probably."

"Your arm is bleeding."

"It was worth it."

She did not argue.

Instead, she reached out and touched the bandage, staining her fingers red.

"Idiot."

He turned his head to look at her.

"Hypocrite. You did not stop me."

"I did not ask you to stop."

He smiled, tired and genuine.

"Exactly."

Morgana moved and sat up on the bed. The sensation of him slowly spilling between her thighs was a visceral reminder of what they had done.

She ignored it, reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand, and drank deeply before handing it to him.

Damon sat up with a soft grunt and accepted the bottle. He drank, then used a little water to clean the blood from her fingers, rubbing them gently.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.

It was heavy with what they had done and everything they still needed to say.

"This does not solve anything," Morgana finally said, her voice softer now. "It will still hurt when you leave."

Damon placed the bottle aside and pulled her back down beside him.

"I know."

She nestled against him, her head resting on his chest while she listened to his rapid heartbeat gradually slow.

"But it was good."

"It was."

"Can we... do it again?"

Damon laughed, a low, hoarse sound vibrating through his chest.

"Before dawn?"

"Before dawn."

He kissed the top of her head.

"I think I can be persuaded."

"Well," she murmured, her hand sliding over his stomach and moving lower, "then let us see whether your recovery is as good as you claim."

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