Her fingers tangle in my shirt. Pull me closer. I brace one hand against the wall beside her head and use the other to angle her jaw back, deepening the kiss. She moans into my mouth—a soft, desperate sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Kharvek.” My name on her lips. Breathless. Wanting.
I trail my mouth along her jaw. Down her throat. Find the pulse point where her heartbeat flutters against my lips and suck gently, then harder when she gasps. Her hands abandon my shirt to grip my shoulders, nails digging in through the thin fabric.
“More.” The word comes out as a whimper.
I give her more.
My hands find the ties of her robe—those practical garments the clan provides, designed for easy removal. I tug them loose,push the fabric aside, reveal the skin beneath. She’s pale in the dim light, marked with the fine scarification that runs along her arms and spine. Those channels glow faint pink as I trace them with my fingers, her magic responding to my touch.
“Beautiful.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
She laughs—a shaky sound. “I’m covered in scars.”
“So am I.” I press my lips to one of the channels on her collarbone. Feel her shiver beneath me. “These aren’t flaws. They’re power. They’re survival. They’re you.”
Her breath catches. Her hands find my face, drag me back up, and she kisses me with a ferocity that matches my own. Lips and teeth and tongue, both of us fighting for dominance, neither willing to surrender.
I tear my shirt over my head. She runs her hands across my chest, tracing the scarification patterns, exploring the muscles beneath. Her touch is reverent and greedy at once—like she can’t decide whether to worship me or consume me.
I know the feeling.
My mouth returns to her throat while my hands map lower. Over the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She arches into each touch, pressing herself against my palms, demanding more contact. When I cup her breast, feel the hard peak of her nipple against my palm, she groans and grinds her hips forward against mine.
I’m hard. Have been since the first kiss, maybe before. My cock strains against my trousers, aching for friction, for heat, for her.
“Kharvek.” She reaches between us. Finds the laces of my trousers. “I need?—”
“Not yet.”
I drop to my knees.
She staresdown at me with wide eyes. The position is unfamiliar—I’ve never knelt before anyone, not willingly. But I want to see her face when I make her come. Want to watch her shatter before I lose myself inside her.
I push her robes aside completely. She trembles, and her hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading through my cropped hair.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
I lean forward. Press my mouth to her inner thigh. Kiss higher. Breathe in the scent of her—salt and musk and something uniquely Imara.
When my tongue finally finds her center, she cries out.
I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to. But instinct guides me, and her responses teach me the rest. I lick along her slit, exploring, tasting, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan. When I find the swollen bud at the apex and suck gently, her hips buck against my face.
“Gods—Kharvek?—”
I grip her thighs. Hold her steady. And set to work.
My tongue circles her clit while my fingers explore lower. She’s wet—drenched—and when I slide one finger inside her, she clenches around me like she’s trying to pull me deeper. I add a second finger. Curl them forward. Find a spot that makes her whole body shudder.
“Right there. Right—don’t stop?—”
I don’t stop. Pump my fingers in and out while my tongue works her clit, building a rhythm that has her writhing against the wall. Her hands grip my hair hard enough to hurt. Her thighsshake around my ears. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps that echo off the stone.
“I’m going to—Kharvek, I’m?—”
