“Soreia.”
“You’re not usually this articulate.”
“The circumstances are unprecedented.” I lean closer. My forehead touches hers. Our breath mingles in the narrow space between our mouths. “I’ve never wanted anything this way. It requires understanding.”
“Does it?”
“Apparently.”
Her hands find my shoulders. Grip with pressure that would leave marks on a lesser creature. “What if I prefer action to explanation?”
I consider her words. Evaluate the invitation implicit in her grip, her posture, her eyes fixed on my mouth.
“Then I’ll demonstrate instead.”
This is slow.Deliberate. Every touch chosen rather than compelled.
I start with her mouth. Not gentle—I don’t do gentle—but thorough. My tongue slides against hers while my hands work the fastenings of her clothing. She helps, fingers fumbling with buckles and laces, both of us stripping away layers until skin meets skin.
The heat I carry bleeds into her. She gasps against my mouth when my palms flatten against her bare stomach, dragging upward.
“Hot.”
“Always.” I watch her face as my hands find her breasts. Cup them. Learn their weight, their shape, the way her breath catches when my thumbs brush across her nipples. “Does it burn?”
“No.” Her back arches into my touch. “It’s—” She loses the word when I lower my mouth to her throat.
I take my time there. Teeth grazing the pulse that hammers beneath her skin. Tongue tracing the tendon that stands out when she tilts her head back. She tastes like clean sweat and magic and a taste underneath that registers as…
mine in every predator instinct I possess.
My mouth moves lower. Collarbone. The hollow at the base of her throat. The slope of her breast.
When I close my lips around her nipple, she makes a sound that shoots straight to my cock. Her fingers dig into my scalp, holding me there, demanding more. I give it to her—sucking, grazing with teeth, switching to the other breast while my hand continues working the first.
Her hips roll against nothing. Searching for friction I haven’t provided yet.
I make her wait.
This isn’t desperation. This is claiming. And claiming requires thoroughness.
I map her body with attention I couldn’t spare before. Learn the places that make her breath hitch—the curve of her neck, the inside of her wrists, the dip of her spine above her hip. The soft skin of her inner thighs. The way she trembles when I drag my mouth across her stomach, heading lower.
“Kaster—”
“Patience.” I press her hips down when she tries to arch toward me. “I want to learn you.”
“You know me.”
“Not like this.” I settle between her thighs. Look up at her flushed face, her dark eyes, her lips parted around uneven breaths. “Not without death waiting outside.”
I lower my mouth to her.
She cries out. Her hand flies to my hair, gripping hard enough that lesser creatures would flinch. I don’t flinch. I hold her hips steady and work her with my tongue—long strokes, then focused pressure on the spot that makes her thighs shake.
She’s responsive in ways I anticipated and ways I didn’t. Vocal in ways that fill the shelter with sounds I want to hear again. Her hips fight my grip, trying to grind against my mouth,and I let her have enough movement to chase the sensation while keeping her from rushing.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue continues its work. She’s wet enough that the penetration draws a moan rather than resistance. I curl my fingers, searching, and find the spot that makes her back bow off the stone floor.
