My chest ached. Not with sadness—with something softer. Tenderer. This male who could shatter bones with his spirit daggers, who’d survived centuries of war and loss, was trembling because I’d kissed him.
I slid my hand up his chest—over the rough fabric of his vest, feeling the heat of him burn through the material. His heartbeat hammered against my palm. Fast. Unsteady.
His hands hovered at his sides. Uncertain. Not touching me, not pulling away—suspended in that agonizing space between wanting and not knowing if he was allowed.
I broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth. “You can touch me.”
A sound escaped him. Low and rough, caught somewhere between a groan and something I didn’t have a name for.
I took his wrists. Gently. Guided his hands to my waist.
His fingers landed like they were afraid of leaving marks—light, barely there, hovering over the fabric of my living suit. The muscles in his forearms tensed as he held himself in check, and I could feel the restraint vibrating through him.
“Here.” I pressed his palms flat against my sides. Firm. Deliberate. “Just feel me. I’m not going to break.”
His fingers curled. Tightened. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough that I felt the intent behind it—the need he was barely keeping leashed.
Good.
I kissed him again. Deeper this time. Let my tongue trace the seam of his lips until he opened for me, and then I tasted him—something clean and bright, like ozone after a storm. His tongue met mine, cautious, following my lead.
The emerald thread between us hummed. Faint. Barely there. But I felt it—a warmth building at the edges of my mental web, a new color pressing against my shields.
I guided his hands higher. Over my ribs, the curve of my waist, up my back. Showed him the map of me through touch alone—where to grip, where to soften, where the slightest pressure made my breath stumble.
“Like that.” I arched into his palm when it settled between my shoulder blades. His fingers splayed wide, spanning me. “See? You’re a fast learner.”
His laugh was barely a breath. Strained. Wonderful. “You’re a patient teacher.”
“I’m an invested one.”
I pushed against his chest—not hard, just enough to walk him backward. One step. Two. The backs of his knees hit the bed and his eyes went wide, the green dark and swallowed with something that made heat coil low in my core.
“Sit.”
He sat.
I stood between his knees and looked down at him—this towering warrior reduced to looking up at me with an expression that was equal parts wonder and barely contained hunger. His runes flared brighter. Emerald light traced the lines of his throat, his collarbone, disappearing beneath the collar of his vest.
I reached for the closure at his throat. “Is this all right?”
He nodded. Swallowed hard.
I unclasped the vest slowly. Peeled the fabric away from his shoulders, baring the skin beneath inch by inch. His body was lean and hard—sculpted by centuries of combat, mapped with faint scars that told stories I’d never know. The emerald runes ran from his shoulders down his arms, across his chest, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Beautiful. Dangerous.Mine—or about to be.
I tossed the vest aside and traced one rune with my fingertip. He flinched. Not pain—sensation. The rune flared under my touch, blazing brighter, and his breath left him in a sharp, startled rush.
“Sensitive?” I kept my voice light even as my pulse hammered.
“No one has ever—” He stopped. His jaw worked. “The runes respond to spiritforce. Yours is… loud.”
I smiled. Couldn’t help it. “I’ve been told.”
I climbed onto his lap.
Straddled him. Settled my weight slowly, deliberately, giving us both a moment to adjust. His hands found my thighs—still tentative, still holding back—and a tremor ran through him as I pressed against his chest.
