Chapter Twenty
THE WORKROOM WAS still warm from the day’s sun, the air smelling of pine resin and dried herbs.
Lirra stood at the long table, her hands moving without hurry.
She was not driving herself. The urgency that had coiled in her spine for weeks had softened, leaving a steady, humming purpose in its place.
She was cleaning her tools—scalpels, probes, the delicate silver syringe—wiping each one with a cloth soaked in alcohol, laying them out in their velvet-lined case.
The ritual was familiar, grounding. The fire in the iron brazier had burned down to a bed of glowing coals, painting the room in shades of amber and deep shadow.
The door opened with the soft scrape of wood against stone.
She did not look up. The weight of his step was familiar, as was the way the air in a room changed when he entered it. A slow warmth bloomed low in her belly, banked and steady. She finished wiping a probe, set it down.
Rauth closed the door. He did not speak.
Lirra lifted her gaze. He stood just inside the threshold, still dressed in the leather and wool he’d worn to oversee the timber crews. His hair was loose, falling just past his shoulders, and there was a faint dusting of sawdust along one sleeve. His eyes were dark in the firelight, fixed on her.
He crossed the room.
The distance was not great. Ten paces, maybe twelve. He moved with that fluid, deliberate grace, each step measured. The sound of his boots on the stone floor was soft, a quiet percussion. Lirra’s breath caught, held. She did not move from the table. She watched him come.
He stopped an arm’s length away. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the shadowed hollow of his throat.
He was close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the scent of pine and clean sweat and something deeper, uniquely him.
He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.
She said, “Yes.”
A single word, clear and unhesitating. It was not a question. It was an answer to the one he had not asked.
Something in his expression shifted—a loosening, a surrender. He reached for her, his hands coming to frame her face. His palms were warm, slightly rough against her skin. He leaned in and kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was deep and thorough, a claiming that felt like an affirmation.
His mouth was hot, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him.
She let her hands come up to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the wool, the shift as he breathed.
He tasted of the evening air, of something dark and sweet like wild honey.
The kiss went on, a slow, consuming exploration that left her dizzy, her blood singing.
When he broke away, his breath was uneven. He rested his forehead against hers. “I have been watching you work,” he said, his voice low, rough at the edges. “For two weeks. Watching your hands. The way you concentrate. The way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking.”
Lirra’s heart hammered against her ribs. “And?”
“And I want to take you apart,” he said. “Slowly. Until you are nothing but feeling.”
A shiver ran through her, sharp and delicious. She nodded, her throat too tight for speech.
He stepped back, his hands sliding from her face to her shoulders, down her arms. He took her hands, turned them over, pressed a kiss to each palm. The gesture was so tender it made her chest ache. Then he began to undress her.
He worked without rush. Unlacing the front of her healer’s tunic, his fingers were deft on the leather ties.
With a gentle push, the heavy fabric slid from her shoulders to fall to the floor.
Her undershirt followed, then the linen band she wore across her chest. The cool air of the room brushed her skin, raising gooseflesh.
He looked at her—a long, deliberate look, appreciative and hungry.
He knelt to remove her boots, then her trousers, his hands firm on her ankles, her calves, her thighs.
When she stood naked before him, she did not feel exposed. She felt seen.
He rose, his eyes level with hers. “Turn around,” he said, his voice a soft command. “Put your hands on the table.”
She obeyed. The scarred oak was solid beneath her palms, still faintly warm from the day.
She heard the rustle of fabric as he undressed behind her.
Then his body was against her back, his chest to her spine, his thighs against the backs of hers.
He was fully bare, his skin hot, the hard length of him pressing into the curve of her lower back.
He leaned over her, bracing his hands on the table on either side of hers, caging her in.
His mouth found the side of her neck, just below her ear.
He did not bite. He kissed, open-mouthed and wet, tracing the line of her shoulder, the ridge of her collarbone.
His breath was hot against her skin. One of his hands left the table, came to rest on her hip, his thumb stroking the dip of her waist. The other hand slid around her front, palm flat against her lower belly, holding her steady against him.
He was everywhere, his heat surrounding her, his scent filling her lungs.
“You are so beautiful like this,” he murmured into her skin. “All your focus turned inward. All your control given to me.”
He moved his hand lower, through the soft curls, finding the slick heat between her legs. A slow, circling pressure stroked her, once, twice, making her gasp and push back against him. From him came a low, approving sound. “Not yet,” he said. “I said slowly.”
He removed his hand. Before she could protest, he was sinking to his knees behind her.
The first touch of his mouth there made her cry out, a sharp, startled sound.
His hands spread her thighs wider, held her open.
He did not tease. He licked her in one long, flat stroke, from the sensitive skin behind her opening all the way up to the aching peak of her clit.
Then he did it again. And again. Each stroke was deliberate, thorough, as if he were learning her by taste.
He took his time, exploring every fold, every hidden place, his tongue firm and clever.
He found a rhythm—relentless, rolling—building pleasure wave upon wave.
Lirra’s knuckles were white where she gripped the table’s edge.
Her head dropped forward, her hair falling around her face.
Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, a molten pressure.
She was panting, small, helpless sounds escaping her with each exhale.
She had not felt this before—so utterly possessed, so completely undone.
He was not trying to make her come quickly.
He was savoring her, drawing out every tremor, every hitch in her breath.
When his tongue circled her clit, then pressed down hard, she shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, violent and deep.
She arched back, a broken cry tearing from her throat.
He held her through it, his mouth still working her, gentler now, drawing out the aftershocks until she was trembling, weak-kneed and boneless.
Pressing a final, soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, he stood.
Then he turned her to face him. Her legs were unsteady.
He caught her, his arms strong around her, and lifted her onto the table.
The wood was cool against her bare skin.
He stepped between her spread thighs, his hands on her knees, pushing them wider.
His length was heavy and flushed, fully erect.
Down at her, his eyes were black with want.
“My turn,” he said.
He guided himself to her entrance, not pushing in, just resting there. He leaned down, bracing his hands on the table on either side of her hips, and kissed her. It was a deep, languid kiss, full of the taste of her on his tongue. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer.
He entered her in one smooth, deep thrust.
She gasped into his mouth, her body stretching to accommodate him. He was thick, filling her completely, a perfect, stretching fullness. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead against hers, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “Lirra,” he said, her name a prayer.
Then he began to move.
He set a slow, deep rhythm, each withdrawal almost complete, each thrust a slow, deliberate re-claiming.
There was no hurry. The only sounds were their breathing, the soft, wet slide of their bodies joining, the occasional creak of the table under their weight.
He watched her face as he moved, his eyes never leaving hers.
She saw the intensity there, the raw, unfiltered need, but also a tenderness that made her throat tighten.
She reached up, slid her hands into his hair, pulled him down for another kiss. He groaned into her mouth, his hips snapping forward a little harder. The change in angle brushed that perfect spot inside her, and she cried out, breaking the kiss.
“There,” she panted. “Right there.”
He obliged, adjusting his angle, hitting that spot with every deep, rolling thrust. Pleasure built again, a tighter, brighter coil this time. She could feel the tension gathering in his body, the way his muscles trembled with restraint. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him deeper.
“Rauth,” she breathed. “Let go. I have you.”
A shudder went through him. His control fractured.
His thrusts became faster, harder, driving her up the table with their force.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as the world narrowed to the feel of him inside her, the slap of skin, his guttural groans in her ear. The coil in her belly snapped.