9. Rakk #2
I'm trembling. Actually trembling like I'm the fragile one here. "You are worth something. You're worth everything."
"Then show me." The words are barely whispered. "Show me what it's like to feel beautiful. Worthy. Cared for. Please."
My heart stops. Restarts. Hammers so hard I can feel my pulse in my throat. "Serah, I—you don't—"
"I want to know." She's close enough now that I can feel her body heat, can see the fine tremor in her hands. "I want to know what it feels like to choose this. To want someone who wants me back, not just my body. I want—" Her voice breaks. "I want to feel safe wanting you."
Every argument, every reason I've carefully constructed for maintaining distance, for protecting her from my magic and my feelings and the intensity of what I want—all of it crumbles.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull back, to change her mind. My hand cups her face, palm against her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw. Her skin is damp from rain, warm from fire, impossibly soft.
She leans into the touch, eyes closing briefly.
"You deserve this," I whisper. My voice sounds wrecked. "You deserve to be cherished. Protected. Wanted for who you are, not what you can give. You deserve—" I swallow hard. "You deserve everything good in this world and I want to give you all of it."
Her eyes open, meeting mine. Gold-hazel and devastating. "Show me," she breathes again.
My control fractures. My magic surges forward, desperate for connection, for understanding, for her—
Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.
The world stops.
Her lips are soft against mine, tentative and trembling. Nothing practiced, nothing calculated. Just genuine want expressed through touch that she initiated, that she chose.
My magic explodes outward, crashing into her like a wave, and suddenly I'm drowning in her.
Her fear and hope and desperate longing, her terror and courage, the careful trust she's built and the vulnerability it took to close this distance.
Everything she feels floods through me in overwhelming intensity—the wonder at being touched gently, the fear that this will be taken away, the desperate need to feel wanted that wars with self-preservation.
And underneath all of it: desire. Pure and powerful and directed entirely at me.
I gasp against her mouth, the sensation almost too much. My hand tightens on her face reflexively, my other arm wrapping around her waist to pull her closer, and I kiss her back with everything I've been holding back for weeks.
She tastes like rain and determination, like every impossible thing I've ever wanted and convinced myself I couldn't have.
Her mouth opens under mine and I deepen the kiss, unable to hold back the hunger that's been building for weeks.
My tongue slides against hers and she makes this small sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight through me.
Her emotions crash over me in waves—wonder and fear and desire so intense it steals my breath. I can feel how new this is for her, how terrifying and exhilarating, feel the way her body responds even as her mind struggles to believe this is real.
I should pull back. Should give her space to process, to be certain. Should be the controlled, careful male I've forced myself to be around her.
But her hands are fisting in my wet tunic, pulling me closer instead of pushing away, and I'm drowning in what she feels. What she wants.
What she wants is me.
I kiss her deeper, pouring weeks of longing into it. My hand slides from her face to tangle in her wet hair, angling her head so I can take more. She whimpers against my mouth and the sound breaks something fundamental in my restraint.
My arm around her waist tightens, pulling her flush against me.
Her body fits perfectly against mine despite our size difference, all soft curves and feminine strength pressed to muscle and barely controlled need.
I can feel her heartbeat hammering against my chest, can feel the trembling in her frame that has nothing to do with cold.
She grinds against me—tentative, experimental—and heat explodes down my spine.
"Serah," I groan against her lips.
Her answer is to arch into me, to kiss me harder. Permission and demand wrapped in desperate motion.
I bend slightly, hands sliding down to cup under her thighs, and lift. She gasps, legs wrapping around my waist instinctively as I pull her up. Her arms circle my neck, holding on, and the trust in that gesture—letting me support her weight, letting me control this moment—nearly undoes me.
I lower us both to the cave floor, the stone warmed by firelight. She clings to me the entire way down, refusing to break the kiss, and I settle over her carefully. Keeping most of my weight on my forearms, hyper-aware of how much larger I am, how easily I could hurt her.
But she's not afraid. I can feel it through our connection—the wonder, the building heat, the desperate need to feel wanted. No fear of being crushed or trapped or overpowered. Just desire, pure and uncomplicated.
I pull back from her mouth to trail kisses along her jaw, down the elegant line of her throat. She tilts her head back, offering access, and the submission in that gesture makes something primal roar to life in my chest.
"Rakk," she breathes. Her hips roll up against me, seeking friction.
I groan against her skin, tasting rainwater and salt and her. My cock is rock hard, straining against my leathers, pressed right against her core. She has to feel it, has to know what she's doing to me.
Terror spikes through me—what if this scares her? What if feeling my arousal triggers memories of being used, of males taking what they wanted without caring about her pleasure?
But she grinds against me again, deliberate this time. Seeking the pressure, the friction. A small moan escapes her throat.
"Please," she whispers.
I kiss down her neck, over her collarbone, nipping gently at skin that tastes like everything I've ever wanted.
Her hands are in my hair, holding me to her, and I can feel her building need through our connection.
Feel how desperately she wants this, wants to know what it's like to be touched with reverence instead of ownership.
I'll give her anything. Everything. Whatever she needs.
"I want—" Her voice breaks. "I need to know what it's like. To be given pleasure instead of used for it. I trust you."
The words slam into me. She trusts me. This woman who has every reason to never trust anyone again, especially not a male twice her size who could overpower her without effort. She trusts me enough for this.
The responsibility of that trust should terrify me. Instead it just makes me more determined to worship her the way she deserves.
Her hands tug at my wet tunic, pulling at the fabric. "Take this off. Please."
I sit back on my heels, breathing hard, and strip the tunic over my head. The wet leather hits the cave floor with a heavy sound. Her eyes go wide, traveling over my bare chest and shoulders and arms with undisguised hunger.
Through our connection, I feel her appreciation—the aesthetic pleasure of looking at someone she finds attractive, the building heat as she takes in every ridge of muscle, every line and plane. No calculation in it, no assessment of threat. Just pure feminine desire.
It's intoxicating.
"Gods," she whispers.
I can't help the smirk that pulls at my mouth. "Like what you see?"
"You know I do." Her hands reach up, tracing over my chest tentatively. Her touch sends electricity through every nerve ending. Through the connection, I feel her wonder at being allowed to touch like this, at having the freedom to explore without fear of punishment.
I catch her wrist gently, bringing her palm to my mouth. I press a kiss to it, then to her inner wrist, holding her gaze. "I'll give you anything you want. Everything. Just say the word."
Her pupils dilate. Her breathing quickens. "Then let me see you. All of you."
I release her wrist, settling back. "Take off your clothes first."
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face, bleeding through the connection. Old fear—of being exposed, vulnerable, judged for the damage done to her body.
"I want to see you," I say softly. "Every part of you. Every scar, every mark, every perfect inch. Let me see what I've been dying to worship."
She sits up slowly, firelight dancing across her features. Her hands move to the hem of her wet tunic. She pulls it over her head in one smooth motion, and my mouth goes dry.
Her breasts are perfect—not large, but beautifully shaped, nipples already hard from cold and arousal. Her torso is lean, defined from years of hard survival, every line and curve a testament to her strength. Old scars mark her ribs, her sides, pale lines against golden-olive skin.
She stands to push down her leathers and smallclothes together, stepping out of them with careful grace. Completely bare in the firelight, watching my face with wary uncertainty.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The scars don't detract from that beauty—they enhance it. Every mark is proof she survived, proof she refused to break. Her body tells a story of resilience and strength, and I want to trace every chapter with my mouth until she understands how extraordinary she is.
"Fucking gorgeous," I breathe. "Perfect."
Through the connection, I feel her disbelief war with desperate hope. Part of her can't accept the compliment, can't believe I see her as anything but damaged. But another part—the part that's starting to trust—wants so badly to believe me.
I'll make her believe. I'll prove it with every touch, every kiss, every moment I spend showing her what worship looks like.
I move toward her, hands skimming up her thighs, her hips, her waist. She shivers under my touch, eyes closing briefly. I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper—pouring everything I feel through the connection. The awe, the desire, the bone-deep need to make her feel cherished.