Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the lines of her body, the curve of her breasts beneath the thin fabric, the dip of her waist, the strong muscles of her arms earned from years of work. There was no hesitation in his look, only a deep, consuming hunger that matched her own.
“Come here,” he said, his voice a low command.
She went to him, straddling his lap on the bench, her knees bracketing his hips.
His palms were hot against the skin of her back as he slid his hands under the hem of her undershirt.
For another kiss, he pulled her down, and this time his hands began to move, exploring her with a rough tenderness that made her shudder.
Down her neck, he broke the kiss to trail his mouth, to the hollow of her throat, his teeth scraping lightly over her collarbone.
She arched into him, a soft sound escaping her lips.
Her own hands were busy, pulling his tunic free from his trousers, sliding beneath the fabric to find the hard, heated skin of his back.
She could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the control he was exerting, and she wanted to shatter it.
She rocked her hips against the hard ridge of his erection, and he made a choked, guttural noise, his fingers digging into her back.
“Wait,” he gasped, pulling back.
He stood, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing, and turned to lay her down on the thick wool rug before the brazier.
The fire painted their skin in gold and shadow.
He followed her down, covering her body with his, his weight a delicious, grounding pressure.
He braced himself on his elbows, looking down at her, his face a mask of raw need and something deeper, something that looked like awe.
“I have wanted this,” he said, the words torn from him, “since you walked into my camp and told me what was killing my children. Since you asked the right question. Since you stayed.”
She reached up and traced the line of his mouth. “I know.”
He kissed her again, a deep, consuming kiss that stole the breath from her lungs.
His hands were everywhere, peeling away the rest of their clothes with impatient, reverent urgency.
When they were both bare, skin to skin, he paused, his body trembling with the force of his restraint.
The firelight played over the hard planes of his chest, the scars that mapped a lifetime of violence, the powerful lines of his shoulders and thighs.
He was beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry and everything to do with sheer, formidable presence.
She ran her hands up his arms, feeling the corded muscle, the power held in check. Rauth, she breathed, the sound a raw, open thing.
He lowered himself onto her, and the feel of him, solid and hot and entirely hers, was a shock of pure sensation.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, opening for him, and he entered her in one slow, devastating thrust that filled her completely.
They both went still, breathing raggedly, foreheads pressed together.
The joining was more than physical; it felt like a circuit completing, a bond settling into place at a level deeper than prophecy or magic.
Then he began to move.
It was not a gentle rhythm. It was deep, rolling thrusts that drove the air from her lungs and built a coil of unbearable tension low in her belly.
Each stroke was a claiming, an affirmation, a promise.
She met him thrust for thrust, her nails scoring his back, her cries muffled against his shoulder.
The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the guttural sounds torn from his throat, the blinding friction that built and built until she was trembling on the edge.
He shifted his weight, his hand sliding between them, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her core.
The added sensation was too much. She shattered, her back bowing off the rug, a raw, broken cry ripped from her throat as the waves of pleasure crashed over her, blinding and absolute.
He followed her over, his own release wracking his big frame, his shout muffled in the curve of her neck, his body pulsing deep inside her.
For a long time, they lay tangled together on the rug, the heat from the brazier and from their own bodies keeping the chill at bay.
His weight was a comfort, his breathing slowly steadying against her skin.
She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling the dampness at his temples, the solid reality of him.
Eventually, he shifted, rolling to his side and taking her with him, tucking her against his chest. He pulled a fur from the bench and draped it over them. In the firelight, his face was relaxed, sated, peaceful. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“The workroom,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
She smiled against his skin, a slow, private curve of her mouth. “Our workroom.”
His arm tightened around her. “Yes.”
She lay there, listening to the crackle of the coals, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her ear.
The healer’s tent was where she worked. This man’s arms were where she stayed.
The thread of the distinction was still forming in her, a new pattern being woven into the fabric of her life.
She had never had this before—this separation, this wholeness in both parts.
It felt like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, finally released.
Outside, the hold was quiet. The children were sleeping. The night was clear and cold, and the stars were beginning to pierce the velvet dark. And she was home.