"You're staring," she whispers.
"You're worth staring at."
I guide her to lie back, spread her thighs gently. She's trembling—not fear, I don't think, but anticipation. Nerves.
"Breathe," I tell her.
She does.
I kiss the inside of her knee. Her thigh. Higher.
When I put my mouth on her, she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
I take my time. Learn what makes her gasp, what makes her hips lift, what makes her fingers tangle in my hair. She's sweet and wet and responsive, and I could do this for hours.
"Vorak—" My name breaks on her lips. "I can't—"
"You can." I add pressure, rhythm, focus. "Let go."
She comes apart beautifully. Her whole body arches, thighs trembling around my head, a cry spilling from her lips that she tries to muffle with her hand.
I don't let her.
I want to hear every sound.
When she collapses back against the furs, breathing hard, I strip off my own clothes and move over her.
Her eyes track my body—taking in the scars, the runes, the barely-contained violence of the curse marking every inch of me—and I wait for fear.
But she just reaches up and touches my chest, right over my heart.
"You're warm," she murmurs.
I catch her hand. Bring it to my lips. "Last chance. Say no and I stop."
"I don't want you to stop." Her other hand comes up to cup my face. "I want this. I wantyou."
The words break something in me.
I kiss her as I line myself up, as I press inside slow and careful, watching her face for any sign of pain.
She's tight and perfect and I have to stop halfway just to breathe.
"Okay?" I manage.
"Yes." Her legs wrap around my hips. "More."
I give her more.
When I'm fully seated, when we're joined completely, I have to stop again because the feeling is overwhelming.
Complete.
Home.
"Move," she whispers.
I do.
