But this—the water, the steam, my Tiger watching me—it was a surrender I hadn’t meant to give.
So damned perfect.
So damned necessary.
Nyomi parted her lips to speak.
I didn’t let the words happen.
I surged forward. Soon, I had one hand locked on her waist, the other banding the back of her neck. Her gasp cracked against my mouth.
The tub heaved.
Water slapped stone and rained back over us.
Steam ghosted our faces.
Her scent—black amber and ripe plum—hit my tongue and every sane thought burned away.
Tora. . .
I took her like the storm devours the ocean.
Hard.
Claiming.
No room left for language.
Teeth.
Tongue.
Breath stolen and given back on my terms.
Yes. We were truly the ocean and the storm.
I was the horizon darkening. The light being swallowed by my rolling wall of clouds. The sky lowering, pressing down, heavy with rage into the ocean. Wind lashing the surface. Tearing it open into jagged dark liquid peaks. Lightning scarring the black sky.
Thunder growling.
Loud.
Violent.
Hungry.
Our mouths were that very chaos.
Any softness within her parted lips, I swallowed, consuming the sweet-salt of her and the faint mineral bite of the bath.
The world cinched tight to her pulse kicking under my thumb, the slick slide of our tongues, the wet drum of water rocking and splashing.
I eased into a cruel rhythm—barely there—just enough to make her chase, to make her rise after me, to make need lift in her throat like a whirlpool.
Circling.
Narrowing.
