“Don’t you dare.”
A laugh broke out of him, low and rough. “Very well.”
He kissed her again. This time he let himself answer her fully. Not with everything he wanted, but with enough to let her feel the hunger he’d kept hidden for so long. His tongue stroked hers. His hand moved slowly along her side, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her gown, and she arched into his touch.
She wanted him. Gods. She wanted him.
He had imagined this moment too many times during the long nights when she’d slept curled innocently against him. In every fantasy he’d allowed himself, he’d imagined hunger. He hadn’t imagined joy.
That was what nearly destroyed him.
Not the softness of her mouth or the small sounds she made when he touched her, but the sight of her beneath him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, happy because he was finally giving her something she had chosen. She grabbed the edge of her gown, and he covered her hands with his. She stilled, questioning rather than afraid.
“Let me,” he said.
Her gaze searched his, then her hands relaxed. He lifted the gown slowly over her body and tossed it aside. She lay naked beneath him, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe as he gazed at those small, perfect curves. She had been naked in his bed many times, but this was entirely different. She had chosen this, chosen to come to him as a female comes to a male, because she wanted him. The distinction struck him with almost painful force.
She shifted beneath his stare. “You’re doing the rock thing again.”
“I am admiring you.”
“Oh.”
“May I?”
She rolled her eyes. “Njkall.”
“Not a question about stopping,” he said quickly. “A question about whether I may admire you with my hands.”
Her mouth curved. “Yes. With your hands and your mouth and any other part you want to use”
So he touched her. Slowly, not because he feared she would change her mind, but because he’d waited too long to rush now. He traced the delicate line of her collarbone, the narrow span of her waist, the soft curve of her hip. She watched him, her breath coming faster as he explored, and he watched her, learning the language of her pleasure the way he had learned the language of her fear.
“Does this feel good?” he asked as his fingers circled the tip of one small breast.
“Yes.”
He bent his head to taste her. She gasped as his tongue flicked across the sensitive peak, and he didn’t hold back the low growl of approval.
“I like the sounds you make,” he murmured against her skin.
“I think you like making me make them.”
He smiled against her. “Both.”
His mouth traveled down her body, her skin hot beneath his lips. When he parted her thighs and tasted the slick, delicious heat at her core, she cried out.
“More,” she panted. “Njkall, please.”
He couldn’t deny her. He found the small bud hidden at the top of her sex and circled it with his tongue. She cried out and twisted beneath him, her hips rising to meet him.
“Like that,” she gasped. “Like that, yes.”
Despite her pleas, he took his time. He had waited a year. He could wait a little longer to make certain she was ready for what would come next. He used his mouth to bring her to the edge, then very slowly, pressed one finger inside her, watching her face for any hint of discomfort, but found only pleasure.
“You’re very tight, little one,” he groaned. “I will go slowly.”
“Not too slowly.”
