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There are many words Rolan describes himself as—auspicious, renowned, gifted with both arcane abilities and dashing good looks—but the most prominent of all words that fits against his character is that he’s a perfectionist.
It’s an important trait to have in his opinion and in his line of work since it gives structure to the absorbed life he and his siblings have inherited after the fall of his previous master and his bump up the industrial ladder. It assures order, reliability, and security.
That’s why he keeps the tower in such proper shape. He’s diligent with his duties in maintaining what is, really, his household. The floors are brushed every night and mopped every week, the shelves are dusted regularly, the windows cleaned and the curtains soaked, beaten, and combed. He runs a tight ship, but it always pays off, and he always feels proud of the state of his residency.
However, tonight he doesn’t give a damn about the books that clatter on the floor and make a mess of his very organized library because he’s more focused on pressing you up against the shelf and kissing you senseless.
This feels like a dream. A very, very good dream, and one he’s had more than once before. He’s always felt guilty about it—that his thoughts are so dirty when his tower is kept so clean, almost as if he needs to show that he’s a man of good quality rather than the hungry scoundrel who pants for things he can’t have; skin he can sink his teeth into and legs he can bury himself between.
The hitched breaths you make against his lips doesn’t help. It doesn’t slow down his hands from skimming beneath your shirt, from grazing his claws against soft flesh just to hear you gasp again, or from pressing his hips against yours to feel the way you burn for him too.
If he’s not careful, he’s going to break you before he even gets the chance to explore.
“Rolan,” you murmur in between kisses, your fingers gripping the back of his robes like they’re your only tether, as if his body won’t ground you like you need. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know,” he groans, but his lips cover yours again, wanting to taste every gasp, every broken confession, every honey-dripped moan.
Your lips are so delicious he wants to lap at them until they’re puffy and sensitive, and he can’t wait to put his mouth on other parts of your body, earnest for the same results. But your fingers grip his robes again, this time yanking him back by his collar like he’s a kitten drinking too much milk.
“What?” he huffs, licking his lips, already starving for your taste again because the air is unsavory now that he’s no longer latched to you.
“Slow down,” you insist, and he makes a noise of dissatisfaction, his claws pressing a little firmer into your body, and there you go gasping again like the breathtaking succubus you are. “Rolan, I mean it.”
With that tone in your voice, he hardly has the advantage to complain, but how badly he wants to sink to his knees right now and beg you to let him keep going. Instead, he obeys your command, and he prays that you’re the only one who ever sees him this pliant.
“Alright, my dear,” he murmurs, pressing his fingertips to your skin instead of his claws, rubbing ever so gently. “What’s the matter?”
Something vulnerable flickers in your eyes. “Do you think we’re rushing into this?”
Hells, no. He’s been yearning for you for a painstakingly long time, waking from restless sleeps with your name on his lips, seeing your smile in reflections and your presence in shadows, which seem to haunt him even after you came back into his life. His entire soul is filled with you and he’s insistent on keeping you there.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” he says.
“I know, but this—” you gesture a hand between your bodies—“is new. I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you or something.”
Rolan laughs, deep and warm. “I sincerely hope you do. You’ll make me the luckiest man alive.”
The color on your cheeks darken and Rolan loves that he can yield these reactions from you, even ingenuously loving you, but that would really be rushing things, and he’s set on taking his time.
“It may feel fast, but I’ve been wanting you for longer than I care to admit,” Rolan says, brushing his hand along your cheek, and feeling his heart stutter when you nuzzle into it. “I’ll own up to the fact that I’ve been rather feverish, but understand me when I say this, waking up with you tomorrow is something I want constantly. This isn’t a moment in time for me. I want you in my life.”
He could shatter with the honesty in what he’s just shared, but somehow the leap into commitment isn’t terrifying when you’re on the other side of it. He’s run from so much in life, but he’s had enough of it. Now, he wants to run to you. He wants to linger in love with you. He wants to stay.
A smile breaks across your lips, and you make a sound Rolan is set on igniting from you as much as he possibly can—laughter.
“I want you too, just like how you described,” you say, then shake your head, “but I was referring to the fact that our first night will be spent in the library, when I’d rather have you in bed.”
“Oh.” Rolan’s ears grow hot. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll have.”
“Thank you.”
As an extension of your thanks, you press a warm, lingering kiss to his lips, and maybe on the average man that would stifle the flames and have him acting in a more gentlemanly manner, but inside Rolan the flames burn hotter, and he’s set on applying his perfectionist tendencies in a very specific way that’ll have your legs aching come morning.
“But rest assured,” he hums, nipping your bottom lip, his claws seeking out your skin again, “we’ll be in this library again. After all, there are so many shelves to have you against.”