She had washed up and hadn’t bothered with a robe.
Kane’s attention locked on her with the same focused clarity he gave a battlefield opening.
"Morning itself?"
Misha held his gaze.
No performance in it, just the same precise honesty she used on payers.
"It’s okay if you don’t want. Your loss."
Kane absolutely wanted it.
He crossed the space between them in three steps, his good arm sliding under her thighs, the braced side careful but not hesitant.
He lifted her cleanly.
Misha’s hands found his shoulders.
He carried her to the bed, set her down against the sheets, and looked at her properly, the healed line of her body, the calm in her face, the history that sat under both.
"Heart’s good?"
"It healed a long time ago."
"Then... brace yourself."
Kane spread her legs with deliberate hands, settled between them, and lowered his mouth to her without further preamble.
The first pass of his tongue drew a short, controlled sound out of her.
He worked her open slowly: broad strokes, then focused pressure against her clit, then deeper, tasting her properly while her fingers slid into his hair and her thighs adjusted around his shoulders.
"Kane—"
"Stay still."
He spoke against her, the words vibrating over sensitive flesh.
"You managed schedules and elves and corridor sieges while I was gone. You get this before the boat, before the island, before the next round of precedent and mass."
Misha’s answer fractured into a quieter, rougher sound as he sealed his mouth over her and sucked.
Her hips twitched.
He pinned them with his good forearm and kept going, steady, thorough, the same refusal to rush that she so often applied to everyone else’s plans.
The damp ends of her white hair stuck to her collarbones.
Her pink nipples rose and fell with breaths that had already lost their administrative calm.
Misha’s fingers tightened in his hair.
The careful administrative composure she wore as a second skin cracked further with every pass of his tongue.
Her thighs flexed around his shoulders.
For a moment she still tried to stay where he had put her, receiving, managed, scheduled.
Then something cut through.
"Enough of still," she said, voice rough.
"On your back."
Kane lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.
The golden stare looking down at him had lost its ledger distance.
What remained was direct want and the decision to take it.
He rolled without argument, good arm bracing, the braced side careful against the sheets.
Misha followed him up, straddled his chest, and then moved higher until her knees framed his head and the wet heat of her cunt settled over his mouth.
She did not ask again and rode his face like she owned the right to it: short, deliberate rolls of her hips that dragged her clit across his tongue, then fuller drops of her weight that forced him deeper.
"Mhmm..."
Kane’s good hand locked on her thigh.
He did not try to reclaim the pace.
He opened his mouth and took what she gave him, tongue working in the rhythm she set, nose pressed to the soft skin above her cunt while she used him with focused, unapologetic hunger.
"That’s better," Misha breathed.
Her hands braced on the headboard. White hair fell around her face in damp curtains.
"You left me with schedules and corridor reports while you bled on foreign stone. You don’t get to be gentle about the repayment."
Kane made a low sound against her that vibrated through the most sensitive part of her.
Misha’s hips stuttered, then pressed down harder.
The wet sounds of her riding his mouth filled the quiet chamber.
Her thighs trembled against his ears.
He kept his tongue moving, broad strokes when she ground forward, focused suction when she hovered, and let her take exactly the angle she wanted.
"Look at you," she said, almost to herself.
"Half-braced and still eating me like you’ve been starving for it. Good. Stay there."
’She’s being cheeky.’
He stayed.
His good arm banded around her hips when her rhythm turned erratic, not to stop her, only to keep her from losing the contact she was chasing.
Misha’s breathing fractured.
The precise diction she used on nobles and timelines dissolved into shorter, rougher fragments.
"There—don’t you dare move your mouth—Kane—"
She came hard on his face.
Her cunt pulsed against his tongue in strong, wet waves.
Juices coated his mouth, his chin, the line of his jaw.
He swallowed what he could and kept working her through it until her thighs clamped and a broken sound tore out of her throat.
Only when the shaking started to ease did he loosen his grip.
Misha lifted off him on unsteady knees, looked down at the mess she had left across his mouth and chin, and for the first time that morning something like color flooded her cheeks that had nothing to do with sex.
Kane dragged the back of his good hand across his mouth, then pulled her down into a kiss that tasted entirely of her.
Misha made a small, startled noise against his lips and then returned it, biting once at his lower lip hard enough to sting.
"My turn to set the pace," he said against her mouth.
He rolled her under him with care for the brace, settled between her spread thighs, and pushed into her in one slow, continuous stroke until he was buried to the hilt.
"Ahh..."
Misha’s head tipped back against the sheets.
Her hands found his shoulders.
For the first several thrusts, he kept it gentle, measured, giving her body time to accept him after the intensity of her orgasm.
The heat of her gripped him in pulses.
Her pink nipples brushed his chest with every careful stroke.
"You can go harder," she said, already breathless again.
"I’m not going to break. The heart is fine. The rest of me has been waiting through wine counts and training schedules and the sound of Thora collecting on the other side of a door. Harder, Kane."
He gave her harder.