19. Ilaris #2
My heart lurched as I walked toward the water, dropping my bag in the grass.
This was why I traveled, to see the hidden beauty of the world, to see the heights of magnificence.
But I’d never seen anything like this. It reminded me of Killian’s home, except instead of volcanoes and stonework and ash, it was covered in green, lush and verdant.
How had no one found this hidden valley? This secret paradise?
My fingers slipped under the hem of my shirt. I peeled the damp fabric from my skin, leaving my clothes in a small heap on the bank. The water was clear, yet I hesitated a moment, long enough to ensure there were no lurking tentacles waiting beneath the surface, before submerging myself.
The water was cool, refreshing after the frenzied rush through the forest, and my body soaked it in, letting go of the intense heat that claimed me.
I ducked beneath the surface and swam a few strokes before resurfacing, marveling at the smooth, gray stones under my feet.
They gave an odd glow to the water, like swimming in a pool of sparkling silver.
I cupped the water in my hands, watching the brightness gather in my palms before slipping between my fingers again. It felt sharp and sweet, like a rush of sugar.
When I lifted my face, Killian stood on the shore.
Watching me. He’d taken off the ruined shirt and dropped it by his bare feet and borrowed shoes.
His gaze rested on me with a focus I couldn’t name.
Slowly, awareness crept over me. I hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, only rushed again, desperate for relief from the heat.
His gaze lingered on my face, then drifted lower, raking across my bare shoulders, lower still to where my chest met the clear water. I doubted the waters concealed very much, despite the falling light.
His jaw tightened, and the desire I’d tapered down returned tenfold, spreading through my body until even the cool water could not chase it entirely away. Any flicker of embarrassment dissolved. Lifting a hand, I waved at him, keeping my voice deliberately light. “Join me.”
Mist curled around his ankles as he approached the water, faint crackles of fire rippling across his skin like embers beneath the dusk.
Even standing there, he radiated heat, and my pulse spiked in response.
Only when his hands went to the fastening of his pants did I plunge beneath the surface again, eager for the river to cool the sudden fire rushing through me.
The water parted with a gentle splash when he entered. I turned as he sank beneath the silver-lit surface, his dark hair loosening and drifting behind him like ink. A moment later, he rose.
Water poured off him, along the line of his jaw, over the broad plane of his chest. I watched the slow shift of muscle beneath skin, the strength in his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
My gaze lingered on the hollow at the base of his throat and the way it moved when he swallowed.
The fire that had danced across his skin earlier had vanished, and the lack of it made me bold. I drifted toward him, compelled by a force outside of me. He moved toward me too, and the waters danced between us, carrying us closer until barely a breath remained between us.
I lifted my hand toward his arm, and stopped.
The space between us hummed with energy, the water whispering softly around our bodies. His gaze dipped to my hand, then rose slowly back to my face. His expression held a question, his entire body tense, as though he might burst.
Tentatively, I pressed my hand against his forearm.
There was no flare of heat. No pain. Only the quiet lapping of the water and the wild pounding of my heart. He turned his hand upward, and I placed my palm against his. His fingers were much larger than mine, longer, still warm.
When I gazed up at him, to see if his desire mirrored mine, his eyes were molten.
He shifted closer until our bodies met, just barely touching underneath the waters. The faint warmth of his breath brushed my cheek as he bent his head toward me. “You shouldn’t look at me like this,” he murmured.
A shiver ran down my spine. I wanted to cross that barrier, that threshold between us and indulge.
To complete what I’d started, the first night we’d met.
Back then I’d acted out of impulse, but now I felt the connection between us.
The mutual desire. Here in the water was the only time we could act on it.
I pressed my other hand against his chest, feeling the drum of his heartbeat. It steadily increased as he placed one hand on my waist, anchoring me in place.
“Ilaris,” he breathed.
I stepped closer, pressing our bodies together, the heat rising within me. I’d never wanted anything so badly. It was hard to breathe, impossible to think.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moved. His breath came ragged and uneven against my mouth. His hand at my waist tightened, then deliberately loosened, as though he were reminding himself not to break me.
When he crushed his lips against mine, the entire world was suspended.
Time froze. His mouth tasted of warm tobacco and smoked birch with the sweetness of cassis beneath it, the sharpness of the river still on both of us, the iron and cinder of his nature underneath.
I tilted my head back and parted my lips, a moan coaxed from my throat.
His lips were warm, insistent, rough yet gentle.
He kissed me as though he’d spent his stone-years rehearsing this and only had one chance to remember it correctly.
As though my mouth were the original language and he had finally, finally been given leave to speak it.
His fingers twisted in my hair, pulling me closer until we were pressed against each other.
My scholar’s mind, even now, tried to catalog him. The bow-string tension across his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked when he tilted his head to find a better angle. No. No words were large enough to explain this.
My body tingled, the sensation growing as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth gently.
Warmth bloomed under my breastbone as our bodies collided and I moved against him, pushing, pulling, my hands running down his chest, gripping his arms, his shoulders, wanting more.
I learned the shape of him by feel, the slope where his shoulders met his neck, the line of his collarbone, the place where his pulse hammered against the heel of my hand.
He let me touch, let me feel. A frenzy built inside, a desperation, and I felt as though I’d never catch my breath again.
He drew back once, only far enough to allow me to see his face.
Water beaded on his lashes, his lips parted, studying me with an intensity.
Then he came back to me as though pulled by gravity, and I understood that nothing about this kiss was casual or experimental.
He was kissing me as though he had been waiting to, as though he’d decided that if the world insisted on burning behind us, he would at least take this with him.
We stayed that way for a long time, kissing, exploring, holding each other until our skin was wrinkled, the night was dark, and a chill wind blew.
I didn’t want to get out of the water. I didn’t want it to be the end of him.
My heart throbbed at the thought of going back to what we were before, separated by fire magic.
I thought my heart would crack open as he carried me to shore, he, the stronger one, protecting me, forcing me to stop. Even though I knew it wasn’t what either of us wanted.
And it was only then, standing on the shore, that I forced myself to let go, and somehow it was worse, worse than not knowing. Because now I’d tasted, I’d touched, and I never wanted to go back.