10. Chapter Ten #2
Is it my imagination, or did he put extra emphasis on the word “potent”? Frankly, my thoughts are scattered and it’s hard to do much more than stare at how beautifully his lips move despite his tusks.
He takes another leaf, crushes it between his fingers, then raises it to his mouth. Unhurried, he places the crushed leaf on his tongue.
“The oils release more effectively with body heat.” His eyes never leave mine. “The traditional method involves direct transfer.”
Something about his intense gaze and the way he says “direct transfer” makes my pulse quicken. I take another leaf from the bundle, crushing it between my fingers as he taught me.
“Like this?” I ask, raising it toward my lips.
“Yes,” he confirms, watching my movement with unwavering focus.
But instead of placing it on my own tongue, some impulse drives me to reach toward him, offering the crushed herb to him instead.
Time seems to suspend as understanding dawns in his eyes. Seeming to decide, he lowers his head, his lips parting slightly. When his mouth closes around my fingertips, accepting the offering, the gentle pressure of his lips sends a shock of desire straight through me.
His eyes close briefly, savoring the flavor, and when they open again, something primal and hungry has replaced his usual reserve.
“Julia.” My name is transformed into something sacred in his deep voice.
Without thinking, I lean closer, my hand moving to his chest. The soft fabric of his shirt does little to disguise the solid wall of muscle beneath. His heart thunders against my palm, its rhythm faster than I’ve ever felt from him.
“The direct transfer method,” I whisper, my courage surprising even me. “Shouldn’t I experience it too?”
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there as his breathing grows more pronounced. With deliberate slowness, he takes another leaf, crushes it between his fingers, and places it on his tongue.
I understand immediately. Easing closer, I close the final distance between us.
Our lips meet, and the universe contracts to this single point of contact.
The taste is extraordinary: the sharp, sweet essence of silver thistle mingling with a warmth that is uniquely Rhazgar.
What begins as a tentative touch transforms instantly into something more primal as his massive arms encircle me, lifting me effortlessly.
My feet leave the ground as he straightens, holding me against him, one large hand cradling the back of my head while the other spans my waist.
My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer as the kiss deepens. The herb releases its essence between us, creating an almost electric tingling wherever our lips meet. I gasp against his mouth at the sensation, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to deepen the kiss further.
The taste of him, the herb enhancing what was already intoxicating, makes my head swim. His tusks press gently against my cheeks, the smooth hardness contrasting with the surprising softness of his lips. Every difference between us becomes a point of exquisite discovery rather than separation.
My body arches instinctively, pressing even closer while he holds me as if I’m something precious and delicate. The strength in those hands, capable of lifting my massive bookcase with ease, now narrowed to the smallest motion that won’t bruise me.
When he growls, the sound reverberates through my entire body, awakening parts of me that have been dormant far too long. I respond with a soft moan that seems to drive him further, his kiss growing more urgent, more demanding.
I have no idea how long we stay locked together, but when he finally sets me down, our breathing is ragged. Only then do I realize how tightly my body had been pressed against him.
Our gazes meet, mutual shock reflected in our expressions. Whatever just happened transcended simple physical attraction. The intensity feels almost supernatural, as if the silver thistle has forged a connection beyond ordinary experience.
He releases me, easing back in evident confusion. His elbow catches the bundle of silver thistle on the counter behind him, and it skitters to the floor with a soft noise that makes us both jump.
“I… forgive me,” he stammers, bending to retrieve the thistle with hands that aren’t quite steady.
I press my fingers to my lips, which still tingle pleasantly from both the herb and his kiss. “Are you sure? Because it felt very… educational.”
His eyes widen at my teasing tone, then soften as he registers my smile. “The traditional application is somewhat less… interactive.”
“That’s disappointing,” I manage, my voice breathy.
We stare at each other across my small kitchen, the air between us alive with new awareness. The taste of silver thistle and Rhazgar lingers on my tongue, a heady combination I already crave more of.
I sway slightly, dizzy, and his hand immediately steadies my elbow, his touch gentle but firm until the spinning subsides.
“The herb,” he finally says, gesturing toward the forgotten bundle on the counter. “We should complete the preparation before its properties diminish.”
“Right,” I agree, though neither of us moves. “The healing properties.”
My body betrays me completely: pulse hammering in my throat, nipples tight against my shirt, liquid heat pooling low in my belly.
Every nerve ending seems hypersensitive, aware of exactly how many inches separate us, and how desperately I want to close that distance again.
I take a shaky breath, gathering courage.
“Rhazgar, was that… is this normal? Part of the healing tradition?”
His eyes hold mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “No. That was not… traditional. At least, not for healing.”
“But it is traditional for something else?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I press my thighs together, trying to contain the ache building there.
He hesitates, conflict warring across his features. For a moment, I think he’s about to say something important: his mouth opens, his gaze holds mine with desperate intensity.
“In WarmHearth culture, silver thistle is…” he stops, jaw clenching. “It’s used for healing. But also for… celebrations. Important moments. Each clan has such things; StoneWatch has their binding spice, HammerFall their ceremonial root preparations. For WarmHearth, this is ours.”
The careful answer frustrates me; he’s told me what it is, but not what it means between us, and I can see genuine turmoil in his expression. There’s something he’s not saying, something that clearly matters.
“What kind of celebrations?” I press gently.
He looks almost pained. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with cultural context you haven’t agreed to understand.”
It’s a non-answer, and we both know it. We’re closer than we were a moment ago, though neither of us moved. His scent makes my head swim.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say quietly, watching the conflict play across his face. “About your traditions. About what this means.”
He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s a look I haven’t seen from him before, not his usual reserve, but something rawer. Like a man standing at the edge of something, unsure the ground will hold.
“Yes,” he says. “There is.”
“Tell me.”
The two words land simply between us. His jaw works. His hands, still unsteady, close into loose fists at his sides.
“I…” He stops. Starts again. “What I can tell you is that what just happened was not accidental. Not on my part.” His gaze holds mine. “The rest requires more courage than I currently possess. But I will find it. I promise you that.”
It’s not enough. We both know it’s not enough. I hold his gaze and let him see that I know.
“I can wait,” I say finally. “But Rhazgar, whatever this is, it matters. And I will need to understand it fully. All of it.”
“I know.” The words come out rough. “You deserve nothing less.”
We stand here for a moment, both of us slightly undone.
“You call to something in me I thought I’d lost when my world disappeared,” he says quietly, not moving. As if he needs to say it before the moment closes.
I look at him for a long moment. He let me kiss him with silver thistle on his tongue, admitted it means something significant in his culture, and is now asking me to wait while he works up the nerve to explain what.
The aggravating thing is I believe him. The more aggravating thing is I’m going to let him.
“I’m a librarian,” I say finally. “I research things. Whatever you’re not telling me, I’m probably going to find it.”
His throat works once, something complicated crossing his face. “I know.”
“Good.” I hold his gaze one beat longer, making sure he understands I mean it. Then I reach down and pick up a stray sprig of thistle from the floor. “Now show me how to finish this preparation.”
As we return to the counter, the air between us remains charged, but differently than before. Not just possibility now. Something more specific. Something with a deadline.