Chapter 11 #2
I silence him with a kiss of my own, pouring everything I feel into it—the trust, the need, the sheer wonder of what we’re building together.
“I’m well, Rooke,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the thunder of my heartbeat. “I know I’m safe with you.”
His expression softens, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
Slowly, carefully, he begins to guide me out of my dress, his hands gentle but sure.
Each movement feels like a question, a promise, and I let him unwrap me piece by piece, shedding not just the fabric but the weight of everything that’s held me back.
“You’re magnificent,” he says, his voice low, reverent, as his gaze traces over me. His hands follow, warm and grounding, their touch igniting a fire that feels as much about connection as it does about desire.
He leans down, his lips brushing a path along my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone, before returning to mine. There’s no urgency, no demand, only a quiet intensity that speaks of a far deeper need.
The pallet gives softly beneath us as Rooke eases me onto the bed, his hands never leaving my skin.
The cool linen contrasts with the warmth of his touch, making me shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the chill.
He follows me down, bracing himself above me, his weight a reassuring presence without feeling overwhelming.
His hand trails a slow path along my arm from shoulder to wrist, his fingertips barely brushing my skin. It’s a whisper of a touch, light and teasing, but it sends a shiver racing down my spine. His other hand cradles my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone as his gaze searches mine.
“I need you,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. “Desperately so, Syrrah.”
He captures my lips in a kiss that’s deep and filled with hunger. His mouth moves to the curve of my neck, his breath warm against my skin. I can’t help but arch into him as his kisses travel lower.
His hands are everywhere, mapping the lines of my body with a reverence that makes me feel like the most precious thing he’s ever held. He’s unhurried, savoring every reaction, every sigh and shiver.
Under Rooke’s skilled touch, my world narrows to pure sensation.
His fingers dance across my heated flesh, each caress drawing responses.
My limbs tremble, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling, of wanting.
The way he touches me—reverently yet with unmistakable passion—sets every nerve ending ablaze.
“Let go for me, maiden,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
His careful attention builds waves of pleasure that threaten to consume me.
Those strong hands that I’ve watched wield a sword now touch me with exquisite tenderness, knowing exactly how to draw out each sensation.
Every time I near the peak, he gentles his touch, drawing out the moment until I’m gasping his name like a prayer.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath my fingers.
The moonlight filters through the window casting silver shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his gaze as he watches me. The reverence in his movements speaks of something far deeper than physical desire.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he breathes against my neck, his words carrying both question and plea. His lips brush my pulse point, making me shiver. “Tell me you feel this too—this connection that burns between us.”
Through the haze of pleasure, I hear the vulnerability in his voice—the need for connection that mirrors my own. This powerful man, laying his heart bare before me, trusting me with not just his body but his soul.
I reach up, gently removing his eyepatch. He tenses, then dips his head, allowing me to pull it free.
A scar runs across his eyebrow and down to the top of his cheekbone. His iris is cloudy white, the scar puckering the corners of his eyelid.
“Not so dashing,” he jokes.
“No,” I agree. “You’re far more handsome without the patch.”
He blinks. “You’ve made a poor choice stroking my ego now with not a stitch on.”
Emboldened, I reach between us, cupping him. “Perhaps you should remove your clothes since I’d like to stroke something far different.”
I startle a bark of laughter from him. “If the lady insists.” He pulls away, discarding his clothing with almost alarming acumen. And then he is bare before me. I drink him in, my breath catching at the sheer strength of him.
Rooke is all sharp lines and hard muscle, carved from survival rather than vanity. A body built for battle, for endurance, for taking pain and pressing forward regardless. His shoulders are broad, his chest powerful, his waist lean. But it’s not just the strength of him that makes my pulse stutter.
It’s the scars.
Old wounds, long healed but never forgotten, slash across his arms, his ribs, his sides—each one a mark of a life hard lived.
But the worst are the burns across his chest. Thin, twisted patches of skin that stretch across his heart evenly spaced and of even lengths.
Their deliberate uniformity can mean only one thing—someone did this to him.
I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers ghosting over their rough texture. He tenses beneath my touch but does not pull away.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Punishment,” he says simply. “For my sins.”
My chest tightens. I want to ask more—who punished him, what crime he committed, why he speaks as if he deserved it? But I don’t wish to dredge up painful memories. Not now, in this moment meant for pleasure. Instead, I press my palm fully against him, warm skin to warm skin.
His breath shudders, his gaze locked on mine.
He gathers me close, covering me until our bodies align as if crafted for each other.
Rooke braces his forearms on either side of my head, caging me in without making me feel trapped.
The firelight flickers across his face, casting shadows that carve him into something both soft and sharp, strong and utterly breakable.
And his gaze…
Gods, how he looks at me.
Rooke watches me with a hunger that steals my breath. Dark and heavy-lidded with want, yes, but beneath that is an aching desperation. He watches me with something that looks an awful lot like reverence.
As if I am something sacred. Something precious. Something he has no right to touch but cannot bring himself to resist.
His hand slips between us, gliding through my curls, parting me gently, teasing me with the lightest touches.
I gasp, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
His control is agonizing. I can see it in the tight strain of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls in uneven, ragged breaths, the way his body trembles as he holds himself back.
He wants this—wants me—with a desperation I can feel in every taut line of him. And yet, he waits. For me. For my choice.
“I’m afraid I need you to guide me,” I whisper, running a hand over his chest.
“I think you suggested stroking, lady healer.” His voice is hoarse, dark, filled with an emotion I don’t yet have words for. He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “I ache sorely. Put me out of my misery, Syrrah.”
The sound of my name in his mouth, weighted with need, with longing, with something dangerously close to devotion, sends heat surging through my veins.
I let my hand slide between us, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the way he tenses, the way his breath stutters at my touch. The rough hair on his stomach is like a trail, guiding me downward until I find him.
His cock is hot, heavy against my palm, hard and proud, pulsing beneath my fingers.
I’ve seen men’s members before—flaccid and dull in the hands of the Saints as they explained the bodily functions of procreation. Healers who taught with careful detachment, who spoke in dry terms about breeding, about how a man’s seed must be planted in a woman for a child to take root.
But this…
Nothing they described matches this. This heaving, breathless, writhing passion that burns in my gut. This flush of desire that soaks my thighs and causes my heart to beat unsteadily.
I explore him, learning the texture of his skin, the way his body reacts beneath my touch, the sharp inhale he takes when I find something he likes.
It seems Rooke enjoys much of what I do.
His fingers tease me as I tease him, both of us pushing, pulling, learning, discovering, until the heat coils so tight inside me that I feel like I might break.
“Rooke, please.”
His breath shudders, his forehead pressing against mine, and for a single heartbeat, I swear I feel him break too. He understands, helping me guide him to my entrance.
And then he stills.
His gaze searches my face, as if memorizing every inch of me, as if he is terrified he will never see me like this again. His hands tremble where they hold me, as if he’s afraid of this, afraid of himself, afraid of what he’s about to do.
“It may hurt.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
He groans, an anguished look flickering across his face.
And then he kisses me. Deep. Gasping. Grasping.
Hungry. A kiss that destroys me from the inside out.
That tells me he is already lost, already mine, already falling, even as he tries to convince himself he is still in control.
He distracts me with kisses, with gasping, grasping, hungry, soul-destroying kisses.
And then, in one swift motion, thrusts into me.
The pain flares while he whispers apologies against my neck. As I adjust to his shape, his weight, his feel, I’m left with the knowledge that I have broken every vow I’ve ever sworn.
I close my eyes, relishing the joy that riots within me.
I am free.
“Syrrah?”
“Please,” I answer Rooke’s question. “I want to feel it all.”
He starts slow, his movements are measured yet intense, each aching slide speaking of possession tempered by devotion.
“You’re everything,” he groans, his control fraying as his rhythm intensifies. One hand splays across my stomach, holding me close, while the other intertwines with mine. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I never dared to dream of having.”
I lose myself in the rhythm we create together, in the perfect synchronicity of our bodies.
His touch is everywhere—reverent, claiming, cherishing.
The calluses on his fingers create delicious friction against my sensitive skin, each caress sending sparks of pleasure racing through my body.
Every nerve ending sings with pleasure, but it’s the emotional connection that threatens to overwhelm me—the way he makes me feel both completely safe and utterly wild at the same time.
His lips trace patterns along my shoulder, up my neck, finding that spot behind my ear that makes me gasp. The gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing touch of his tongue has me arching against him, seeking more of everything he offers.
When he whispers, “Come for me, love,” against my ear, his voice is rough with emotion.
I shatter in his arms, crying out his name.
The intensity of it takes my breath away.
He follows me over the edge, his body trembling against mine as we find our release together, his grip tightening on my hand as if I’m his anchor to reality.
In the aftermath, he holds me close, his arms a protective circle around me as our breathing slowly steadies. He turns us until he is able to hold me in his arms, my back to his front.
His lips press tender kisses along my shoulder, across my spine, each one a silent promise. His grip is possessive yet gentle—a wordless vow of protection and devotion that speaks louder than any declaration could. The slight tremor in his touch tells me how deeply this moment has affected him too.
As our heartbeats gradually slow in tandem, I feel the truth of what we’ve become. I am his, as he is mine.
He tightens his arms around me, as if reading my thoughts, and presses a kiss to my temple.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “For I’ll be waking you soon enough for more.”
With a grin, I close my eyes, already anticipating our next embrace.