Aurora's POV
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the sound of our ragged, synchronized breathing. Oliver's weight collapsed onto me, his chest heaving against my back as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. The fever seemed to break with his release, the terrifying tension in his muscles finally melting into heavy, exhausted muscles.
For a long time, neither of us moved. I lay draped over the edge of the bed, my fingers still twitching against the silk duvet, my body humming with the aftershocks of a pleasure so raw it felt like a bruise.
Slowly, Oliver shifted. He withdrew and rolled us both onto the mattress, pulling me into his arms with a possessiveness that felt different now—softer, yet more desperate. His eyes flickered, the dark, blown-out shadows of the fever receding to reveal that familiar, sea blue.
He looked down at me, and his breath hitched.
"Aurora," he whispered, his voice cracking.
