Chapter 8 #2
Yes. She wanted him to touch her. Wanted his hands on her skin, wanted to feel again what he’d awakened in that alcove—the heat, the hunger, the breathless need. But how did one ask for such things? What words could bridge courtly restraint and mountain directness?
Khaeric straightened, turning to face her with a dress draped over one arm. “Ye should try on the ceremonial pieces,” he said, nodding toward the wrapped bundle still sitting apart from the rest. “Make sure they fit properly.”
The suggestion pulled her from her spiraling thoughts.
Ceremonial pieces. Yes. Something concrete to focus on, something that didn’t require navigating the impossible terrain of desire and shame.
The first piece was a leather bandeau top in a rich burgundy, gold beading tracing patterns along the edges, geometric designs that flowed into one another.
“That’s for formal gatherings,” Khaeric said from behind her. “Clan meetings, celebrations.”
Turning the top in her hands, Aeryn examined the intricate patterns, her fingertip following the sweep of gold beads as they curved and split. “It’s beautiful.”
“Try it on.”
She set the burgundy top aside and pulled the linen tunic over her head. Instead of trying the ceremonial clothing on, Aeryn stood waiting for him to turn around.
He turned.
His gaze found her immediately. Swept down the length of her body: her breasts, her narrow waist, the triangle of dark hair between her thighs.
The gowns slipped from his arms, pooling at his feet in a cascade of forgotten silk.
His breath left him in a rush. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curling into fists before releasing.
“Aeryn.” Her name emerged rough, barely more than a rasp. “What are ye doin’?”
The air pressed against every inch of her exposed skin.
“I—”
Oh gods. What had she been thinking?
She’d misunderstood. Misread everything. Twisted ordinary kindness into permission she hadn’t been given. Her hands crossed over her breasts. Too late.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes darted around the room. “I thought—I didn’t mean to—”
The vest lay on the bed, too far. The linen tunic had fallen somewhere behind her. She spun, nearly tripping over a pile of clothing, and lunged for it. Her fingers closed around the soft linen just as something caught her foot. She stumbled, catching herself against the edge of the trunk.
One moment Khaeric stood frozen by the fallen gowns, the next his hands closed around her arms. The tunic slipped from her grip.
“Aeryn—”
“Please don’t.” She tried to pull away, but his grip held firm. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Let me see.”
See what? More of her humiliation? More of her naked, unwanted body?
His hands shifted, one moving to her waist, the other guiding her gently but inexorably to turn. She resisted, her muscles locking against the movement. His strength overwhelmed hers with ease, turning her until he could see her hip.
“Aeryn, ye’re bleedin’.”
The words made little sense. Bleeding? “Where—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t—”
“Yer hip. The wood split the skin.”
She couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything except shame and the sudden awareness of his hands on her body.
“Stay still.” His voice carried a command that bypassed conscious thought. Her body obeyed, her head turning to meet his gaze over her shoulder.
His hands shifted, and then—gods—he was lifting her.
He turned her, lowering her so her back met the stone, legs parted, breasts bare.
She tried to close her legs, to cover herself, but his hands held her hips, adjusting her position.
One palm spread across her waist while the other gripped her thigh, tilting her body so her injured hip angled upward, closer to his face.
Panic flooded through her. What was he—
His black tongue pressed against the wound.
Hot. Wet. The sensation shot through her like lightning. Her body jerked, a strangled sound escaping her. His grip tightened as his tongue dragged across the split skin again.
“Stop—Khaeric, what are you—” She tried to twist away, but his hands held her fast.
“What are you doing?” Her voice pitched higher, panic threading through every syllable. Her hands pressed uselessly against the solid mass of his shoulders. “Stop, please—”
“I willnae stop.” His voice came out low. “I’m healin’ ye.”
Khaeric’s tongue moved across her hip again, hot and impossibly foreign. Healing. He’d said healing, but nothing about this felt like any healing she’d ever known.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails catching in the fabric of his tunic. “I don’t understand—”
“Orc saliva.” Another slow drag across the wound. The split skin tingled beneath the wetness, a strange prickling that spread outward from where his mouth pressed against her body. “It closes wounds. Helps prevent infection.”
Saliva. He was healing her. His mouth on her skin wasn’t desire—it was necessity.
His tongue made one last pass across her hip, and then his hands shifted.
Before she could process the movement, he was repositioning her—turning her, lowering her fully to the floor so her back pressed against the cool stone.
Her legs fell open as he moved between them, his knees settling on either side of her hips, his weight hovering above her.
“Khaeric—”
His hand slid up to her throat. His thumb brushed the hollow beneath her jaw, and his mouth found hers.
The kiss obliterated thought.
His lips moved against hers with purpose. His tongue brushed her lips apart, and when she gasped, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.
Aeryn’s hands hovered for a heartbeat before falling to the stone floor beside her head as a whimper escaped as she arched into the contact.
Khaeric pulled back just enough. The hand at her throat remained as his other hand grabbed one of hers and dragged it down between their bodies.
He pressed her palm flat against his groin.
Heat. Hardness. The shape of him was unmistakable through his breeches. Her fingers curled reflexively against the rigid length, and his hips jerked into the contact.
“I want ye.” His voice came out ragged, frustration in every syllable.
His amber eyes burned into hers, his pupils blown wide.
“Stop panickin’. I want ye, Aeryn.” His hips rocked forward again, grinding the hard length of him against her palm.
“D’ye understand? I want ye so badly I can barely breathe around it. ”
The words cut through the fog of panic. Want. He wanted her. The evidence pressed hot and insistent against her hand, proof that her nakedness hadn’t repelled him at all.
“But you—” her voice was strangled. “You didn’t move. You just stood there.”
“Aye.” A rough laugh escaped him. “Because if I’d moved, I’d have done exactly this.” He thrust against her hand again, harder this time. “And ye looked terrified, Aeryn. Ye looked like ye were offerin’ yerself up for sacrifice, no’ because ye wanted my hands on ye.”
Sacrifice. Is that what he’d seen? Her standing there naked, not with desire, but with grim duty? “No,” she whispered. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“Then what did ye mean?” His thumb stroked along her pulse point in a way that made it impossible to think clearly. “Tell me, Aeryn. Tell me what ye want.”
What did she want? She couldn’t untangle it. Not with his hand at her throat, not with the hard length of him pressed against her palm, not with her bare back against the stone and his weight pinning her in place.
“I—I wanted you to touch me.”
The admission felt like stepping off a cliff.
“Touch ye where?”
Everywhere. Anywhere. She didn’t know how to articulate the wanting that had built in her chest since the alcove. “I don’t—I don’t know how to—”
“Show me.” His hand slid from her throat to her collarbone, tracing the hollow there with maddening slowness. “Take my hand and show me where ye want me to touch ye.”
The instruction made her light-headed. Take his hand. Guide it to—where? Her breasts? Between her legs?
Her fingers trembled as they left him. She reached for his wrist instead, her grip tentative, uncertain. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t guide his hand to where she ached for it, couldn’t speak the wanting aloud.
“Aeryn.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Look at me.”
She forced her eyes to meet his. The intensity there, raw and unguarded, stole what little breath she had left.
“Ye dinnae have to do anythin’,” he said. His fingers flexed beneath her grip on his wrist. “But if ye want my hands on ye, then guide me. Show me.”
He was giving her a choice. She could stop this—release his wrist, scramble away, pretend none of this had happened. He would let her.
She pressed his hand to the soft triangle of hair between her thighs, her fingers trembling where they gripped his wrist. The contact sent a shock through her entire body, her hips jerking involuntarily against his palm.
Khaeric’s fingers moved, sliding through the soft curls, exploring. Then his fingers parted the curls, finding the slick heat beneath.
Aeryn went rigid as his fingertips slid through wetness she hadn’t realized was there. A gasp escaped her. Her hand flew to his shoulder as his fingers worked, her hips bucking against his touch.
This was what she’d felt in the alcove. This thirst, this desperate ache that made rational thought impossible.
His fingers found the place where sensation concentrated into a single point of almost unbearable pleasure. Her back arched, a moan tearing from her before she could stop it.
The pleasure built with each stroke, coiling tighter until she thought she might shatter. Khaeric’s mouth found hers again, swallowing the sounds she couldn’t contain. His tongue moved against hers in rhythm with his fingers. She was drowning in it, in him.
Then his finger slid lower, finding the entrance to her body.