Afraid he’ll burn me.
I make the choice for both of us.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond. Just stays frozen like he’s not sure this is real.
Then he kisses me back.
Not desperate like yesterday. This is slower. Deliberate. His mouth moving over mine with focused intensity that makes my knees weak.
And God, he’s hot.
Not figuratively. Literally. His lips burn against mine—not painful, but intense. Like kissing summer itself. The heat from his skin warms me where our bodies press together, and I feel myself leaning into it, into him, chasing warmth I’ve been starving for.
The hand at the back of my neck angles me for better access. The kiss deepens, and I make a sound that should embarrass me but doesn’t.
He tastes like mountain water and fire and… I want more.
My hands move without conscious decision. Trail down from his face to his shoulders—God, his shoulders—feeling the shift of muscle beneath skin that radiates warmth like a living furnace. Down his chest, fingertips tracing the tattoos that wind across his torso.
The heat intensifies where my palms flatten against him. The water on his chest evaporates under my touch, and I feel more than hear the low rumble that builds deep in his chest.
Not quite a growl. Not quite a groan.
Something not quite human.
The sound should terrify me. Should remind me that I’m kissing something I don’t understand.
Instead, it makes me feel powerful. Wanted. Seen in a way I’ve never been.
My palm flattens against his stomach. His muscles contract under my touch, and I feel the sharp intake of his breath.
Lower still.
My fingers brush the trail of hair below his navel. His cock presses against my hip, thick and hot even through my clothes. I want to touch him there. Want to wrap my hand around all that flesh and—
“There is fire waiting.” The voice cuts through the moment. “But not here. Not now.”
I jerk back and spin around.
The old woman from yesterday—Dragana, I think her name is—stands on the path. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
“Oh, my God.” The words come out strangled. “I didn’t… We weren’t—”
“I see what you were doing,” she says dryly. Her English is heavily accented but clear. She looks pointedly at K, then back to me. “My grandmother warned of such things. When the old blood wakes, it burns everything it touches.”
The way she says it—not metaphorical, but literal—makes my stomach lurch.
K steps between the elder and me so smoothly that I barely register the movement. Protective. Instinctive.
Still naked. Still hard.
Still completely unbothered by either fact.
“We apologize,” K says, voice perfectly level like he wasn’t just seconds away from—
Don’t think about it. Do NOT think about it.
