His mouth was a brand on her throat, his hands peeling away the last of her clothing with a reverence that felt like worship. When his palm finally cupped her bare breast, his thumb brushing her nipple, the sensation wasn’t just pleasure—it was a key turning in a lock deep inside her, opening a room she’d sealed shut. A sob caught in her chest, part terror, part relief, as her body arched into his touch, answering a question she’d been too afraid to ask. The storm outside mirrored the one he was stirring within her, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid of being swept away.
Kael’s hand was impossibly warm, his skin rough like stone against the soft swell of her. He held her there, his thumb circling her nipple with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her gasp. The sound was swallowed by the rumble in his own chest, a vibration she felt through her bones. Her flannel and tank top were gone, pooled somewhere on the floor, and the cool cabin air raised goosebumps on her skin everywhere except where he touched—there, she was molten.
“Kael.” His name was a breath, a plea, a prayer. She felt his amber gaze drop to her face, the low light catching the wet tracks on her cheeks. He didn’t speak. He never did. But he bent his head, his mouth leaving her throat to trail a path of open-mouthed kisses down her sternum. His breath was hot. Her skin tightened, waiting.
When his lips closed over her other nipple, she cried out. The sensation was sharp, sweet, a direct line of lightning to her core. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers tangling in the coarse, dark hair there, not to push him away but to hold him to her. He suckled, gently at first, then with a deeper pull that made her hips jerk off the bed. A low, ragged moan tore from her throat, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
He released her with a soft, wet sound, his tongue lapping the peaked flesh before he lifted his head. His eyes glowed, fixed on hers. One large hand slid from her breast, down the trembling plane of her stomach, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It didn’t stop at the waistband of her jeans. His claws found the button, popped it open with a faint click. The zipper hissed down.
Elara held her breath. The storm wind howled, rattling the windowpane. His hand rested, palm flat and heavy, over the denim and the damp heat beneath. Waiting. His entire body was still, a mountain of shadow and restraint, letting her feel the weight of his want, the proof of it pressed against her thigh. Her voice, when it came, was raw. “Yes.”
His hand slides beneath her jeans, the denim rough against his knuckles, his palm a searing brand over the thin cotton of her panties. Elara gasps, her back arching off the bed. The fabric is already soaked, a damp heat that makes his own breath catch in a low growl. He doesn’t move his hand, just lets it rest there, letting her feel the full weight of his touch, the proof of her own wanting.
“Kael.” It’s a whimper this time. Her hips press up into his palm, a silent, desperate plea. He answers by curling his fingers, the pressure firm and deliberate through the wet cotton. A broken sound escapes her, and her hands scramble at his shoulders, her blunt nails digging into the hard plates of his hide. The storm outside lashes the cabin, wind screaming, but all she hears is the wet sound of his touch and the ragged pull of her own breath.
He hooks a claw in the waistband of her panties, a question in the tilt of his head. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown black in the firelight, but she nods, a sharp, frantic movement. “Yes. Please.” He peels the denim and cotton down her thighs in one slow, relentless motion. The cool air hits her bare skin, and she shivers, exposed. His gaze drops, taking her in—the thatch of auburn curls, the glistening slickness of her. The amber light of his eyes flares, hot and possessive.
He lowers his head, his breath ghosting over her inner thigh. She jerks. “Wh-what are you—” The words die as he presses a kiss to the trembling muscle, his mouth shockingly soft. He nuzzles there, inhaling deeply, a rumble vibrating through her bones. It’s an animal sound, pure hunger, but the touch that follows is all reverence. His thumb finds her center, not entering, just stroking through the wet heat, tracing her folds with a slow, maddening precision.
Her legs fall open, a surrender. Every nerve is alive, singing. His thumb circles her clit, once, twice, a gentle pressure that makes her cry out. The sob is tangled with a moan, terror and pleasure indistinguishable. He watches her face as he touches her, studies every flinch, every gasp, learning what makes her unravel. His other hand comes up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her scar, holding her in his gaze as his touch between her legs grows bolder, deeper.
She’s shaking, close to something she doesn’t understand, a precipice she sealed away years ago. “I can’t,” she breathes, but her body is saying otherwise, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the friction. He leans in, his forehead resting against hers, his breath mingling with hers. His thumb presses down, firm, and her world whites out for a second, a shockwave of sensation that isn’t release but the promise of it, vast and terrifying and hers.