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Chapter Twelve
“The eyes of a maid, tell true, to whom her love she has given.”
—The Tale Of Gunnlaug The Worm-tongue And Raven The Skald
Eir reveled in the moment when her lips met Kai’s.
She would forever remember the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath, the infinitesimal trembling in the hands that held her close, the flutter of his eyelashes upon his cheeks as his eyelids lowered.
Like battlements crumbling down.
He was dragon, and he was man. Baring all of himself to her.
Dear Freya, how she wanted him!
She knew the moment their lips met that he was defenseless in her arms. All of him yielding, open, vulnerable.
All of himhers.
He offered himself willingly. His mouth firm but giving, pliable under her onslaught, but holding his ground. He was her match in every way, daring her to claim the marks he’d carved into his own flesh. Daring her to find her courage and rise to his challenge.
To open herself and let him know her too.
He made these silent requests in the mingling of their breaths, the tentative sucks of their lips and sinuous slide of their tongues.
This wasn’t a rutting like any other, he was telling her. This was more than physical satisfaction. He was giving her the gift of himself in this moment.
She felt it. The searing touch of his heart, mind and soul.
It humbled her. Enflamed her. Ignited within her a passion and a ravagingneedshe’d never known.
To conquer. To own.
But also to claim and protect.
If he was truly hers now, of his own choice and desire, then he was her responsibility. All of his pleasure and pain, his sadness and joy—she would be the cause of them.
And she realized with sudden and perfect clarity that she only wanted to give him the good things in life. The best things.
She wanted to set him free, even as she needed to chain him to her forever.
Those full, firm lips that embraced hers…they told her so many things without words.
How long he’d waited to be touched and held like this. Tens of thousands of years. So much harshness, bleakness and pain in his existence. So little warmth and connection.
His hands that held her—long fingers and broad palm that cupped the back of her head, the possessive brand at her hip…there was so much strength in them. He could bend her to his will. Coax her or force her so easily, despite her own powers.
And yet, she knew, as no one else had ever known, the boundless gentleness and affection he held within each fingertip. More than the pleasure they could give, those hands conveyed a man’s deep abiding love for a woman. They held her now in invitation.
To love him back just as fiercely.
Eir did not know what it was to love such a man. It terrified and exhilarated her all at once.
But she could not turn down his invitation again, she knew at least this much. If for no other reason than the fact that she would never allow anyone else to have him.
He washers.
And if she didn’t know fully what “love” was in this moment, she was willing tolearn.
