He pulls back, just enough to look at my mouth. He watches it as I pant, as if he is trying to understand its purpose.
With a slow, almost childlike, experimental gentleness, he mimics me.
He presses his own lips to mine.
I freeze.
It is not a human kiss. It is clumsy. It is firm. It is overwhelmingly, impossibly hot. There is no art to it, no practice. It is a simple, reverent press of his mouth against mine. His tusks, the massive, yellowed tusks I have only ever seen as weapons, are cold and smooth against my cheeks. They frame my face, a terrifying, visceral, and impossibly intimate reminder of what he is.
He just presses. A moment of pure, gentle, contact. He grunts against my lips, a soft sound of discovery.
And the wall of ice in my chest shatters.
The simple, non-threatening, reverent press of his mouth breaks my fear. The adrenaline, the shared terror, the intimacy of the blizzard cave, the wonder of his tactical mind... it all crests. It crests into a new, sharp, and desperate need.
I let out a small, shuddering breath. And in a moment of pure, starved instinct, I kiss him back. It is a small, human, pathetic movement of my own lips against his.
It is a trigger.
The "childlike" curiosity vanishes.
A deep, possessive growl rumbles in his chest, so powerful it vibrates through my jaw, into my bones, and down to my toes. The "question" is gone.
He takes the kiss.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and demanding. He presses me back against the cabin wall, his heat a furnace. His tongue, surprisingly human-like but larger, rougher, sweeps into my mouth.
It is a claiming. It is raw, deep, primal. He devours me. He tastes me, a groan of pure, animalistic satisfaction vibratingfrom his chest. I am overwhelmed. My fear is instantly burned away, incinerated by a shocking, electric bolt of pure pleasure. My hands, my stupid, trembling hands, come up and fist in his thick, matted hair, holding on as the world spins.
His other hand, the one that was in my hair, moves. The size of it. It splays across my stomach, his massive, clawed fingers spanning from my hip to my ribs. His hand is as big as my entire torso.
His claws are sharp. I feel their points prick through my thick, wet tunic. A reminder of the danger. But he doesn't tear. He is being impossibly, agonizingly careful.
He runs his hand up my body, his palm, a shield of hot, calloused skin, covers my entire breast. His heat soaks through the cloth. His thumb brushes my nipple.
I gasp into his mouth, my back arching, my body jolting. The pleasure is too much, too sharp.
He growls again. It is a sound of pure frustration.
He pulls back from the kiss, his red eyes blazing. He is panting, his breath a hot cloud in the frigid air. He looks at my tunic, at my cloak, at the layers between us, as if they are a personal insult.
He doesn't ask. He acts.
He grabs the hem of my tunic. For a second, I think he will shred it.
Instead, he tugs. A single, clear, non-verbal command. Help me. Take it off.
My fingers are numb. I am too slow.
He growls again. Impatient.
And with one massive, controlled pull, he rips the seam of my tunic from hem to collar. The sound of tearing cloth is a violent, final sound in the small, silent cabin.
He gently but irresistibly pushes the ruined fabric, my thin undershift, and my heavy cloak from my shoulders. The cold airslams into my bare skin, a shock that makes me cry out. My nipples instantly bead, a tight, aching pain.
He shoves his own torn, bloody loincloth away.
His red eyes burn as they trace my small, human, naked form. I am fully exposed to him.
