Chapter Seventeen
Dahlia
The already humid air thickens with the tension that blooms between us like a rare flower, beautiful and exotic. His eyes reflect my hunger back at me, but where mine is uncertain, his is knowing. Calculated. Patient.
Instead of giving in to my clear, desperate desire for a kiss, he tilts his head, studying me like I’m something fragile. Like I am already his. Then, with deliberate slowness, he runs his tongue over his lower lip, sharp teeth peeking out just enough to make my stomach flip.
Hypnotized, I follow the motion, my breath stuttering, because I swear I can feel it tracing over my skin already—his mouth dragging over my throat, my collarbone, lower—the strong tongue and wicked teeth laving my flesh.
He slides me down his body and sets me back on my feet.
But as if he can’t bear to be away from my touch, he takes my hands.
His fingers engulf mine, warm and steady, grounding me even as the water makes my body weightless.
The calluses on his palms are rough, but the way he holds my hands is gentle.
Too gentle.
Because I see the way he looks at me. Like he’s holding back a force more powerful than an avalanche, with the unshaken resolve of the mountain itself.
His eyes burn brighter than the bioluminescence curling around us, the swirling depths of silver and gray mystical.
A storm barely held in check. A beast in a gilded cage of control.
And I am so damn tired of cages.
I want to feel something real. Something wild. Something I don’t have to apologize for wanting. I step closer, and his breath hitches.
I should be careful. I should think this through. But the words should and can’t and impossible have been ruining my life for years, and I don’t care anymore.
Not when his thumb traces slow circles over the back of my hand, as if memorizing the shape of me. Not when his chest rises and falls just a little too fast, his jaw tight, like he's holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.
Not when my body is begging me to break it.
I look up at him, tilting my chin so my lips part just slightly, an invitation without words.
And he—he doesn’t move, as still as the stone caverns around us. The storm in his gaze rages, but he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t take.
Not until I give.
I reach up, pressing my palms flat against his chest. His skin is hotter than the water, a heat that seeps through my hands and arrows straight down to curl low in my belly, pooling between my legs.
His lips part on a sharp inhale and a tremor wracks his thick frame. He wants.
And so do I. My fingers trail lower, down the ridges of his abs, past the deep cut of muscle leading lower.
A flicker of a smirk ghosts over his lips. Then, without a word, he takes my hands and starts moving, leading me deeper into the water. Into the darkness.
I let him. I should not, but I do.
The glow of the cave shifts, the bioluminescence trailing lazily over our skin as he maneuvers us into the deeper pools.
The water changes here—hotter, stronger, more alive.
As if it’s a manifestation of the hunger pulsing between us, it swirls in currents that pulse over my legs and thighs, a steady, rhythmic pressure that makes my breath hitch.
The Migoi lifts me as the water deepens, angles my body, tilting me slightly, and the hot stream of water cascades lower—gliding down over my back, the curve of my ass.
I gasp, arching under the sensual attack, the current startling in its intensity but nothing compared to the fiery contact of my breasts grazing against his heated flesh.
A deep, pleased rumble vibrates through his chest, through me, pushing out into the dark corners of my body.
Before I can react, he moves as fast as lighting, spinning me in the water until my back is pressed flush against his front. The contact has me inhaling sharply, the scent of snow and pine washing over me above the mineral of the water as I am surrounded by him.
His massive arms cage me in, one wrapping across my breasts, dwarfing them in his hold, while the other grips my hip, anchoring me against him. His mouth hovers just over my shoulder, his breath searing against my exposed throat.
The faintest scrape of those elongated canines I had a glimpse of earlier teases my flesh as if he wants to bite me. And gods help me, I melt.
Because I feel him. All of him. His cock is like fire, pressed against my ass and reaching up to the small of my back, velvety and impossibly thick, the veins on his shaft pulsing with the warmth of his barely-leashed restraint.
Heat spikes through me, need unfurling low and dangerous.
I squirm, testing the strength of his grip, not sure if I am trying to get closer or further away when his growl deepens, his fingers turning possessive on my hip.
“Dahlia.” My name is more snarled than spoken, gritted between clenched teeth. A blessing or a curse, I’m not sure, but the warning is clear.
But so is the way his hips twitch, as if his restraint is breaking, as if he is one heartbeat away from losing control. There is a fine tremble to the arms bracketing me, a frisson of energy coursing through him and into me.
A wicked shiver dances down my spine at the thought of him unchained. Unfettered. Wild and free, like I wish to be.
I tip my head back, exposing more of my neck, and his sharp inhale is the only confirmation I need. I can't help but strum this live wire, knowing full well I'm standing in water. The current is already surging, and if it kills me—what a way to die.
“I like the way you say my name,” I confess into the dark caverns, voice breathy. Not the nickname I loathe, Dolly. Not Dahlia in Ben’s mocking tone but Dahlia—strong, fierce, true. The way only he could say it.
His grip tightens.
“Dahlia,” he growls again, this time lower, rougher, his lips brushing my bare shoulder, the scrape of his teeth more insistent, teetering on the edge of piercing my flesh.
Gods help me, I want more. Emboldened by his response, I thrust my ass back against him, and his growl snaps into something harsher, hungrier.
He angles me so that, once again, the current reaches for my body.
It’s everywhere, warm and pulsing, like a lover’s hand—seeking and insistent.
His fingers blaze a fiery trail from my hip down between my legs, shoving the thin fabric of my panties aside and parting my flesh just enough for the heated water to rush against my sex.
I jerk against him, a ragged moan slipping from my lips at the relentless current pulsing against me.
A dark chuckle falls from his lips, whispering over the shell of my ear, and I know we are crossing over into unchartered territory. Perhaps even more dangerous than that damn avalanche.
His muscles ripple against me, every flex deliberate, every motion agonizingly precise as he directs the jet exactly where he wants it—where he wants me to feel it.
And oh, I do. The water pulses between my thighs, demanding surrender, rolling over my clit in steady waves. Too much yet not enough. Not nearly enough. My head lolls against his chest as my legs tremble, but his arms hold me firm, his large hand splaying across my stomach to keep me in place.
I try to twist, to escape the onslaught of sensation, but it only makes it worse. He shifts his hips and moves so his cock, now fully hard, slips up between my thighs. It’s scorching heat hotter than even his body.
Desperate for a mooring in this storm of sensation, my hands reach behind me, gripping his thick thighs, feeling the raw strength beneath his skin.
He shifts again, angling me just so, positioning my body so the water torments me further, cascading over my sensitive flesh. Each tiny movement causes it to wax and wane, teasing me until I’m panting.
Grasping the panties he had been holding to the side he gives a sharp tug. The fabric is there one moment and gone the next, a seamless motion beneath the water. No sound. No warning. Just need.
With his new unfettered access, he explores every inch of my skin with his rough fingertips, an agonized moan falling from his lips.
I cry out at the interplay of sensation, the smooth warm water and his rough heated skin playing a brutal tug of war with my flesh.
His lips brush against my jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the steam and sweat from my skin as his fingers slide through my sex, teasing, circling, exploring me thoroughly but never quite giving me what I need.
I whimper, frustration curling into my pleasure, and he rumbles another dark chuckle. I need something inside of me. I need him inside of me to fill this desperate ache.
“So hungry,” he muses, dragging his sharp teeth over the shell of my ear and working his way down my neck, trailing kisses and nips. His tongue sweeps out, tasting the pulse pounding at my throat.
His fingers press deeper, apply exquisite pressure to my clit, and fuck—I’m writhing and moaning and grunting, feral for him.
His cock pulses between my thighs. It’s not just big. It’s hot like fever-warmed silk, slick, the veins along the length thrumming against my sensitive skin.
I feel ruined already, and he’s barely done anything. The only coherent thought in my mind is trying to get his massive erection inside of me.
A whimper catches in my throat at the thought of being filled by him, and I can feel his smirk against my temple as he leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear.
“What was that you were singing earlier?” he murmurs, his voice a slow, sinful drag over my skin.
Song? What song? I can’t answer him when all I can think about is his hand is roving over my breasts. All I can feel is the heat of his impressive erection grinding against me. And that damn relentless water is driving me mad.
“Back that ass up?” he murmurs, every syllable drenched in wicked satisfaction.
I choke on a laugh, but it melts into a moan as he moves his hand back to my hip to pull my ass back further into him then rolls his hips, thrusting his cock between my thighs. The head drags against my clit, and my vision blurs.