His hands—those hands—sweep down the length of my spine.
From shoulder to hip. Over and over.
Reverent. Possessive. Worshipful.
He touches me like I’m something sacred.
Like I’m made of stardust and not skin.
Like my body is a language only he understands.
Like he’s reading every line.
His thumbs dig into my tense muscles, working the soreness from travel and battle and too many nights spent braced for heartbreak.
He kneads and strokes and soothes until I melt under him, sighing into the bed, boneless and buzzing with need.
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, eyes fluttering shut.
“I want to,” he says, voice rough. “I need to.”
My breath catches.
His lips brush the back of my neck.
My shoulder. My spine.
Then lower.
My hips.
My cheeks.
Then in between.
Every kiss brands me.
Not with pain—but with heat and meaning.
A declaration without words.
A vow.
He licks down my crevice, circling my hole with his tongue, and I whimper. Helpless. Shocked.
And really? It feels better than I imagined.
No one has ever done this to me, and I-I’m dripping with how much it turns me on.
He licks again, then replaces his mouth with a finger—a thumb maybe?
“Thorne?”
“Easy, Shula. I got you.”
He adjusts his position, nudging my legs apart with his knees, making room for his bulk—all the while that maddening finger keeps teasing my hole, pressing in a little then withdrawing until I am aching with a need I never explored.
The heat of his body pins me, and I feel his cock bumping against my thighs.
