Chapter 11 #3
When I opened for him, the sound he made was pure hunger.
His tongue swept against mine, claiming, exploring, and heat pooled low in my belly.
His other hand slid down my spine in one long, possessive stroke that made me arch into him, and suddenly there wasn't enough contact, wasn't enough closeness, wasn't enough of him.
I kissed him back with abandon—every suppressed desire, every secret fantasy, every moment I'd told myself to be reasonable pouring out of me.
His tusks were cool against my flushed cheeks as he tilted his head, changing the angle, going deeper.
Perfect didn't begin to cover it. This was transcendent.
When we finally broke for air, his eyes blazed molten gold, pupils blown wide with desire.
I framed his face with trembling hands, my thumbs tracing the sharp beauty of his cheekbones. "Take me inside."
The words hung between us, heavy with promise. His eyes darkened further, and I felt the shudder that ran through his entire body. "Jordan—"
"Please." I kissed him again, pouring everything I felt into it—want and need and trust. "I want you. All of you."
He swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing at all, and I wrapped myself around him as he carried me through the deck door.
It slid shut behind us with a decisive click that made my pulse race.
My living room became a blur of familiar shapes as he followed my breathless directions down the hallway.
Sunlight spilled through my bedroom curtains, bathing everything in honeyed warmth.
When he lowered me to the edge of the bed, the world seemed to narrow to just us. We stood there, caught in the gravity of the moment—this wasn't just desire, it was a threshold. Once we crossed it, there would be no going back. Everything would be divided into before and after.
I reached for the hem of his shirt, and he bent to help me pull it over his head.
I'd glimpsed him shirtless in the village before, but this was entirely different.
This was an invitation. This was mine to explore.
My fingertips mapped the terrain of his chest—hard muscle, warm skin, the raised lines of scars that held stories I wanted him to tell me someday.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my palm.
"You're shaking," I whispered.
"So are you."
We were. Both of us trembling like teenagers. But none of that mattered. This was stripped down to something fundamental—raw and real and terrifying in the best possible way.
His hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped me out of my clothes, each piece falling away under his reverent gaze.
Standing bare before him, I expected the usual flutter of self-consciousness, that voice that catalogued imperfections.
Instead, I felt seen—wholly, completely seen—and absolutely radiant under the heat of his attention.
"You're perfect," he murmured, and the way he said it made me believe in magic.
The rest of our clothes disappeared in a flurry of eager hands and surprised laughter when his belt buckle refused to cooperate.
When Ruka finally stood before me with nothing between us, I forgot how to breathe.
Seven feet of pure power, every inch of him sculpted like an ancient god brought to life.
His shoulders could block out the sun, his chest a work of art that narrowed to lean hips.
The sheer magnitude of him should have overwhelmed me—did overwhelm me—but in a way that made my blood sing.
My gaze drifted lower, and my heart performed acrobatics. He was gloriously hard, his cock thick and proud and undeniably huge. A thrill of nervousness tangled with desire in my core. He was impressive—everywhere—and a tiny voice of reason wondered about the logistics.
"Jordan." His voice had gone rough, uncertain. He'd caught the flicker of hesitation cross my face. "We don't have to—"
"No." I closed the distance between us, rising on my toes to pull him down to me. "I want this. I want you." I let my hand trail down the landscape of his torso, over the ridges of his stomach, until my fingers wrapped around him—or attempted to. "Every magnificent inch of you."
The sound he made—half gasp, half groan—sent courage flooding through me.
Yes, he was intimidatingly large. Yes, there was a very real possibility this might require some creative problem-solving.
But the way he looked at me—like I was something sacred, like he'd stop the instant I asked—made me want to try.
Made me want to take everything he offered and give him everything in return.
"We'll go slow," he promised, pressing his forehead to mine. "I'll take care of you."
And I believed him completely.
Ruka lifted me with effortless strength, his hands secure and warm as he carried me the few steps to the bed. The mattress welcomed us as he laid me down with a tenderness that made my chest ache, then settled beside me, propped on one elbow.
His gaze traveled over me with such raw hunger that my skin prickled with heat. Then he descended, claiming my mouth in a kiss that tasted of promises and barely restrained need. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to drown in him.
When he broke away, his lips blazed a trail down my jaw to the sensitive curve of my neck.
He lingered there, kissing and tasting until I was squirming, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
He moved lower still, across my collarbone, down to my shoulders—each kiss a brand, each touch deliberate worship.
Then his mouth found my breasts, and the world narrowed to sensation.
His hands—those impossibly large, gentle hands—cupped me reverently, thumbs circling my nipples until they peaked under his attention.
When his mouth closed over one, hot and wet and perfect, I gasped, my back arching off the bed.
The swirl of his tongue, the careful graze of teeth, the exquisite pressure—it was almost too much and not nearly enough.
He lavished attention on one breast while his hand teased the other, rolling and pinching with just the right amount of pressure to make me writhe beneath him. Then he switched, giving equal devotion to the neglected side, and a moan tore from my throat.
"Ruka," I breathed, his name a plea.
He hummed against my sensitive flesh, the vibration rippling through me, and continued his worship—alternating between feather-light kisses and firmer attention that had me trembling, desperate, my entire body thrumming with need.
Heat pooled between my thighs, my body responding to him with an urgency I'd never experienced before.
When his hand slid down my stomach, moving lower with deliberate slowness, every nerve ending came alive.
His fingers traced the inside of my thigh, and then he paused before drawing in a sharp, shuddering breath—the kind that told me he'd discovered exactly how ready I was for him.
"Jordan," he groaned, the word half-prayer, half-curse. His fingers moved higher, and when they finally reached where I needed him most, we both made sounds—his a low, appreciative rumble that vibrated through his chest, mine a desperate whimper.
"You're so wet. So ready for me," he murmured against my breast, wonder threading through his voice. His fingers began to explore, stroking and circling with a reverence that made my toes curl. Every touch sent lightning through my veins, building something inside me that felt too big to contain.
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine—dark, hungry, barely controlled. "You smell so fucking delicious. I need to taste you," he said, his voice rough gravel. "Please let me taste you."
The please undid me completely.
He kissed his way down my body like he was mapping new territory—over my ribs, across my stomach, along my hip bones. Each press of his lips felt like a vow, and when he settled between my thighs, gently coaxing them wider, anticipation stole my breath.
The first stroke of his tongue made me cry out, my hands flying to his hair.
He groaned against me, the sound vibrating through my most sensitive flesh, and then he was feasting on me with single-minded devotion.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate patterns, learning me, discovering what made me gasp, what made my hips lift seeking more.
"Ruka," I whimpered, my fingers tightening in his hair. "Oh God—"
He hummed his approval, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core, and intensified his efforts.
One hand found mine, fingers interlacing, while the other gripped my hip to hold me steady as he drove me higher and higher.
The pleasure built in relentless waves, each one threatening to pull me under, until I was trembling on the precipice of something vast and terrifying and perfect.
When he slid his fingers inside me, curling them just right while his mouth continued its devastating work, I came apart.
The orgasm crashed through me in wave after wave, and he stayed with me through all of it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks subsided, pressing tender kisses to my inner thighs.
He crawled back up my body, and when he kissed me, I tasted myself on his lips—salt and intimacy and something that felt like claiming. His body thrummed with barely leashed desire, the hard length of him pressing insistently against my hip.
"Come here," I whispered, pulling him closer, wanting to feel all of him.
He positioned himself at my entrance, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that brought tears to my eyes.
Then he began to push inside, and the world narrowed to that single point of connection.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming.
He was considerably larger than I'd anticipated, and my body resisted the intrusion.
A sharp sting bloomed, pulling a gasp from my throat as my fingers dug crescents into his shoulders.
He went absolutely still. "Jordan—"
"Don't stop," I managed, though every muscle had gone taut. "Just... give me a moment."
He held himself motionless, trembling with the effort of restraint, his forehead dropping to rest against mine.
His breathing came harsh and uneven as he waited, giving me time to adjust to the fullness.
Soft kisses rained down on my face—my cheeks, my eyelids, the corner of my jaw—accompanied by whispered words I couldn't quite make out but felt in my bones.
Slowly, the sharp edge of discomfort dulled, transforming into something deeper, more insistent. I shifted experimentally beneath him, and pleasure sparked along my nerve endings.
"Please," I breathed. "Ruka, I need you to move."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
He withdrew slightly before sliding back in, controlled and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face. But there was only pleasure now, building with each careful thrust. I arched into him, silently demanding more.
"More," I said aloud this time.
Something flickered in his expression—the last threads of restraint beginning to fray.
His next thrust went deeper, harder, and I cried out in pleasure.
He established a rhythm that started measured but gradually intensified, each stroke pushing me higher.
The careful control began to slip as hunger took over, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, drawing him deeper with each thrust. "Yes," I gasped. "Just like that. Don't you dare stop."
He groaned my name like a prayer, his hips driving against mine with mounting force, and I rose to meet him, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt ancient and inevitable. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, spiraling toward something explosive.
The orgasm detonated without warning, so intense my vision whited out. "Ruka!" His name tore from my throat as my body clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, pleasure cascading through every nerve ending.
The sensation of me tightening around him shattered his control.
With several more powerful thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt, his entire body going rigid as he roared my name.
I felt the heat of his release flooding me, pulsing deep inside as his hips jerked against mine, prolonging both our pleasure until we collapsed, trembling and gasping for air.
He kissed me like he was dying and I was life itself—deep, desperate, absolutely devastating.
Ruka shifted, rolling us to our sides, keeping me close, remaining buried deep inside me as he tucked me against his chest. We were both gulping oxygen like marathon runners, hearts hammering against each other through sweat-slicked skin.
His grip tightened, almost possessive, as if the universe might try to pry me away if he loosened his hold even a fraction.
"My mate," he rumbled against my temple, the words vibrating through his chest into mine. "Mine."
Then came the kisses—soft as whispers, reverent as prayers. My forehead. My cheek. The tip of my nose. My other cheek. He mapped my face with his lips like he was committing every angle to memory, then buried his face in my hair and just breathed me in, pressing more kisses to the crown of my head.
From the living room, my laptop beeped. Email notification.
Probably Dr. Chen with another enthusiastic pitch about Emory's emergency room.
Or Erlanger confirming our video interview tomorrow.
Or any of the other hospitals that I'd submitted applications to, each one representing the future I'd spent a decade building toward.
I should check it. Get up. Be the responsible, logical person I'd always been.
The best sex of my life shouldn't dictate major career decisions. That was the definition of impulsive. The kind of choice that led to bitter regret and late-night what-ifs and explaining to future therapists how I'd torpedoed my career for an orgasm.
I should make a spreadsheet. Pros and cons.
Career advancement versus... whatever this was with Ruka.
Publications and prestige and the carefully constructed life plan versus a male I'd known for barely over a week who claimed we were fated mates and made me feel like I was made of starlight and electricity.
The thoughts drifted through my mind, sensible and smart and utterly unconvincing.
Because I was already burrowing deeper into Ruka's warmth, and his arms were tightening around me like he'd been waiting his whole life to hold me like this, and his heartbeat beneath my ear was steady and sure and felt like home in a way no city or hospital ever had.
The email could wait.
The decision, I realized with startling clarity, had already been made.