His mouth was cold from the rain. She tasted it on his lips, lake water and wind, and underneath that the heat of him, familiar now, something her body recognized before her mind caught up. His hands went to her waist, gripping hard, and she felt the restraint snap in him like a line pulled past its limit. He hauled her against his body and kissed her back with a hunger that had been building behind every careful conversation, every almost-touch, every night he'd held himself in check.
She grabbed the lapels of his soaked jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. It hit the stone floor with a heavy wet slap. His shirt was damp underneath, clinging to the planes of his chest, and she pulled it over his head because she wanted her hands on his skin and she was done waiting for permission from herself.
He picked her up and her legs wrapped around him, her arms around his neck, and he carried her through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He set her on the bed and stood over her,breathing hard, rain still dripping from his hair, and she looked up at him in the dim light from the stove glow coming through the open door.
He was beautiful. She'd avoided that word, even in her own head, because beautiful implied something soft and there was nothing soft about Rafe Lupeus. But standing over her bed with his chest bare, the wave tattoos dark on his forearms, the scars on his ribs catching shadow, his gray eyes fixed on her like she was the only solid thing in a world gone sideways, he was beautiful. And she wanted him with a clarity that burned.
She pulled her shirt off, unhooked her bra and let him look. His eyes tracked down her body with the same focused intensity he brought to reading weather, repairing hulls, holding his wolf on a leash. Except the leash was fraying, visible in the way his hands hung at his sides, clenched, shaking.
"Come here," she said.
He dropped to his knees and his hands found her hips, thumbs pressing against the ridge of bone, and he kissed her stomach. The contact made her muscles jump. He kissed lower, along the waistband of her pants, his mouth warm against skin that was still cool from the storm, and the contrast made her arch toward him.
He pulled her pants down slowly. Her underwear with them. His hands traced the length of her legs as the fabric cleared her ankles, and then she was bare on the bed and he was kneeling in front of her looking at her with an expression that made her chest ache. Reverence wasn't the right word. Hunger was closer. Hunger tempered by something that looked like wonder, as if seeing her like this, open, choosing, unafraid, was something he'd wanted but hadn't let himself expect.
She sat up and reached for his belt. He caught her wrists. Gently, but firm.
"Let me," he said.
"Rafe."
"Let me have this." Low, rough, his thumbs circling the inside of her wrists where her pulse hammered. "You held a storm. You told me you saved yourself. You did. Now let me show you what that means to me."
He kissed her wrist. Then her palm. Then the place where her fingers met her hand, where the charge usually lived, where on bad days the static arced. He kissed that spot like it was sacred, and she felt something crack open in her chest.
He laid her back on the bed. Kissed her throat, then the hollow between her collarbones. The slope of her breast came next, his mouth closing over her nipple with a slow, deliberate pull that made her gasp and fist her hands in the sheets. He gave the other the same attention, his tongue tracing circles, his teeth grazing the peak until she was writhing under him, her hips lifting off the mattress looking for contact she couldn't find.
"Rafe." His name came out raw.
"I'm here."
He kissed down her stomach. Down the line of her hip. His shoulders pushed her thighs apart and his mouth found her, warm and unhurried, his tongue stroking through her folds with a patience that made her want to scream. She was already wet, had been since she'd put her hand on his chest in the kitchen and felt his heart slamming against her palm, and the first full stroke of his tongue through that slickness pulled a sound out of her that she'd stopped being embarrassed about three chapters ago.
He took his time. That was the difference between this and the counter, between this and last time. He wasn't rushing toward anything. He was tasting her, learning her, finding the places that made her breath hitch and then returning to them with a precision that bordered on cruel. His tongue circled her clit in slow, firm passes while his hands held her hips steady, andwhen she tried to grind against his mouth he pressed her down and kept his own rhythm.
"Let go," he said against her. The vibration made her shake. "You don't have to hold anything right now. Just let go."
The orgasm built slowly, from deep in her belly, rolling through her in waves that started gentle and then crested hard, her back arching off the bed, her thighs clamping around his head, her hands pulling at the sheets until the fabric burned her palms. She cried out, loud, his name tangled with something wordless. He stayed with her through every pulse of it, his mouth working her until she was shaking, oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders because she couldn't take any more.
He kissed the inside of her thigh. Stood. Unbuckled his belt, shoved his jeans down, kicked them off. He was hard, thick, the length of him visible in the dim light, and seeing him like that while she was still trembling from what his mouth had done sent a fresh pulse of heat through her.
She reached and wrapped her hand around him. He groaned, his head dropping forward, his hips pushing into her grip. She stroked him once, twice, feeling the weight of him in her palm, the way his breathing fractured when she tightened her grip at the head.
He climbed over her. Settled between her thighs, his weight braced on one arm, his other hand guiding himself to her entrance. She was slick, swollen, still pulsing from the orgasm, and when the head of him pressed against her she tilted her hips and pulled him forward with her legs.
He pushed inside and they both went still.
The fullness of him was overwhelming. She felt every inch, the slow stretch as he sank deeper, the pressure of him filling her completely. He stopped when he bottomed out, his forehead against hers, his breath ragged, his arms trembling where they braced on either side of her.
This was her choice. She held onto that as he held still inside her. She'd walked through a storm today, held it, tamed it, directed it with her own hands. She'd told this man she didn't need saving. She'd told herself she was done being afraid. And now she was here, in her bed, with his body joined to hers, and every part of it was something she'd chosen. The want. The trust. The vulnerability of letting someone this close when her entire history said closeness was the thing that killed.
She rolled her hips. He groaned against her neck and started to move.
Long, deep strokes that filled her completely and then withdrew until she felt the loss of him before he pushed back in. She matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet each thrust, her hands sliding up his back to grip his shoulders. The friction was exquisite, every movement hitting deep, the angle perfect because they'd learned each other's bodies now, knew where to press, where to shift, how to move together so the pleasure compounded with each stroke.
She wrapped her legs tighter around him. Changed the angle. The next thrust hit a spot so deep she cried out and dug her nails into his shoulders. He did it again, watching her face, reading her reaction, adjusting his hips to hit the same place with every stroke. The bed rocked beneath them, the headboard tapping against the wall, the sound rhythmic, steady, matching the pace he'd set.
"Harder," she breathed.
