Chapter 16 #2
Not the structure around us — though it was beautiful, all flowing curves of polished obsidian and living light that pulsed from the crystal veins in the walls.
Not the soft furs on the floor or the scent of rain and ozone that permeated the air.
This. Him. The way his hands moved over me as if he was touching a dream.
The way my body answered, without thought, without hesitation, a perfect echo to his call.
His fingers traced the silver lightning that now lived permanently under my skin, a roadmap of our journey from strangers to this.
Each touch sent a soft, thrumming pulse of energy through me, not the violent surge of our first joining, but a deep, resonant hum that settled in my bones, in my soul.
I was no longer just Sloane, the human who crashed on a strange world.
I was Sloane, loved by Sorik. Part of Sorik.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice a low vibration against my temple.
I opened my eyes, and the sight of him stole my breath.
His silver eyes, once so alien and unreadable, were now an open book.
In them I saw desperate need. Awe. I saw the future.
An endless stretch of days and nights, of discoveries and passions, of a love that would only deepen with time.
"I'm looking." I stroked the sharp line of his cheekbones with my thumbs
His skin was warm, a living thing under my touch.
I could feel the faint thrum of his bioelectric system, a steady, reassuring rhythm that called to the new current humming in my own veins.
He leaned into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment, a look of such profound contentment on his face that my heart clenched.
I did that for him. Made him feel that way.
"I love you." The words seemed both inadequate and absolutely perfect. "I love you so much."
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming it from something handsome and alien to something devastatingly familiar. "And I love you, Sloane. More than I ever thought possible to love anything."
He lowered his head, and his mouth found mine.
This was nothing like our first kiss. This was a homecoming.
His lips moved against mine with a tender reverence that brought tears to my eyes.
There was no urgency here, no desperate need to consume or be consumed.
There was only a deep, abiding connection.
Two souls finally, irrevocably, finding their other half.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him without hesitation.
The first touch of his tongue against mine sent a soft, pleasant jolt through me, a spark of the lightning that now lived in my blood.
I met his exploration with my own, our tongues dancing in a slow, sensual rhythm that was both intimate and incredibly erotic.
I could taste him — a complex flavor that was uniquely Sorik, a mix of ozone, rain, and something darker, spicier, that was all his own.
His hands moved to the hem of my shirt, and I lifted my arms to allow him to remove it.
The cool air of the room was a shock against my heated skin, but it was quickly replaced by the warmth of his hands as they moved to cup my breasts.
His thumbs brushed over my nipples, and they pebbled instantly, aching for his mouth.
"Sorik," I breathed, my head falling back as he lowered his head to obey my unspoken command.
His mouth closed over my nipple, and the pleasure that shot through me was both familiar and new.
It was the same lightning strike I had come to crave, but it was softer now, more controlled, a gentle current that flowed from his mouth, through my breast, and down to pool in my core.
I moaned, my hands fisting in his hair as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, his tongue and lips and teeth working me into a state of feverish need.
But there was no desperation in his movements.
There was only a deliberate, thorough exploration, as if he was committing every response, every gasp, every shudder to memory.
He was learning me all over again, but this time, he was learning me as his.
As the woman he would love for the rest of his life.
He straightened, his gaze meeting mine as he reached for the fastenings of his scant clothing.
I watched, my breath catching in my throat, as he revealed himself to me.
His body was a work of art, all lean muscle and dark, teal skin that shimmered in the soft light of the room.
The bioluminescent nodes along his spine pulsed with a gentle, blue-white light, and the silver lightning scars that marked our shared experiences were a stark, beautiful contrast against his skin.
My gaze dropped to his cock, already hard and jutting from his body. It was as beautiful as the rest of him, thick and long, the head already slick with his need. A fresh wave of wetness flooded my core, a primal response to the sight of him, to the knowledge that he was mine, and I was his.
He knelt before me, his hands resting on my thighs. "Let me," he whispered, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants.
I lifted my hips, and he slowly, reverently, removed the last of my clothing.
I was bare before him, vulnerable in a way I had never been with anyone else, but I felt no shame.
I felt only a deep, abiding trust, a certainty that this man, this alien who had claimed my heart and my soul, would cherish me always.
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to my mound.
I shivered, my hands tangling in his hair as his tongue delved into my folds, finding my clit with an unerring accuracy.
The pleasure that shot through me was immediate, overwhelming, but it was different this time.
It wasn't the violent, all-consuming storm of our first joining.
It was a gentle, rolling wave that built slowly, steadily, a pleasure that was both intense and sustainable.
He licked me with a thorough, focused attention, his tongue exploring every fold, every sensitive ridge, learning me anew with a patience that was both arousing and incredibly touching.
I could feel his own pleasure, a dark, hungry need that was a constant, thrumming undercurrent to my own, and the knowledge that he was enjoying this as much as I was only fueled the fire.
"Sorik," I moaned, my hips rising to meet his mouth. "That feels... so good."
He hummed against my clit, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through me.
Then he slid two fingers inside me, curling them to find that spot that made my toes curl.
The combination of his mouth on my clit and his fingers inside me was a potent cocktail of sensation, and I felt the pleasure begin to build, a pressure deep inside me that grew with every stroke, every lick.
"Come for me, Sloane," he murmured against my skin. "Let me feel you."
His words were my undoing. The orgasm rippled through me, a gentle, rolling wave of pleasure that left me shaking and breathless. It wasn't the violent or world shattering. This was a deep, satisfying climax that left me feeling cherished, loved, completely and utterly his.
He rose over me, his body a living shadow in the soft light of the room. I could see the raw, primal need in his eyes, but I could also see something else. Something deeper. Love. Tenderness. Devotion I hadn’t earned, didn’t deserve, and would never, ever give up.
He positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging against my entrance.
He entered me slowly. So damn slow. His cock spread me open until he hit my womb.
He held perfectly still. Buried deep. My legs wrapped around his hips as I stared into his eyes. Wondered if we could have children.
Trusted the storm to choose our path. To adapt our bodies if that was our destiny. If not, I had him and he was more than I’d ever dared dream I could have. I had a family. A home. Love.
Tears gathered. Slipped down my cheek.
“Your emotions are leaking.” His voice was a low growl. “Sloane.”
“Make me yours.” I squeezed his cock with my inner muscles. Smiled through my tears. They were not sad tears. They hurt. True. But it was happiness. Joy. Love. They only hurt because I’d never felt them before. Not like this.
He pulled out and drove into me in one smooth, hard thrust. The world didn't shatter this time.
It settled. The physical sensation of his thick cock stretching me, filling me completely, was eclipsed by the psychic blast of our joining.
Every node on my body flared at once. The silver lightning beneath our skin pulsed in a blinding, synchronized rhythm.
I felt his love, his awe, and his overwhelming pleasure as if it were my own, and I knew he was feeling mine.
"Home," he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. "You're finally home."
He set a slow, deliberate rhythm that was both tender and incredibly erotic.
Each stroke sent a fresh wave of pleasure washing over me, a gentle, rolling current that seemed to flow not just through my body, but through my very soul.
His movements were unhurried, each retreat and advance a deliberate act of worship.
He was memorizing the feel of me, and I was memorizing him—the hard planes of his chest against my breasts, the way his muscles bunched and released in his back as he moved, the deep, guttural sounds he made in the back of his throat with every thrust.
Through our connection, I felt his struggle to maintain this slow pace, the primal instinct to take, to claim, warring with the profound need to cherish, to savor. It was a battle he was fighting for me, and the knowledge made my heart swell until I thought it might burst.
"Let go," I whispered, my hands sliding down his back to grip his firm ass, pulling him deeper. "I'm not going to break."