He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, then pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The sight of him bare steals what little oxygen I had left.
Vakutan muscle is not decorative.
It’s built.
Every line of him looks engineered for violence and survival, scars mapping old battles across bronze skin. But the way he looks at me — reverent, hungry, almost awed — makes my chest ache.
“Stars,” I whisper. “You’re… unfair.”
His mouth curves faintly. “So I’ve been told.”
He leans down and kisses me again, slower now, deeper, letting me feel every second of it. His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm and broad as they trace up my ribs, over my breasts.
I arch into his touch with a soft, helpless sound.
“Gods, Mara,” he murmurs. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Pretty sure I have agreatidea,” I say, breathless.
He huffs a laugh, then his fingers find the clasp of my top and undo it with maddening patience, like he’s savoring every inch of the reveal. When he finally pulls the fabric away and looks at me, something in his expression softens so completely it nearly undoes me.
Not hunger.
Awe.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly.
No one’s ever said that to me like that.
Not like it means something sacred.
He lowers his mouth to my breast and I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as his tongue circles, slow and deliberate. He takes his time, learning me, listening to every breath and sound, adjusting until I’m writhing beneath him, hips lifting without permission.
“Tatek,” I whisper. “Please.”
He looks up at me, eyes burning. “What do you want?”
“You.”
That’s all.
He rises and lifts me with ease, settling me into his lap so I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his hips. I can feel how hard he is now, thick and insistent beneath me, and the knowledge sends a shiver straight through my core.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
This close, there’s no hiding anything.
The bond hums between us like a living thing.
“You’re sure,” he says again, softer now.
I cup his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
That’s when he kisses me like he believes it.
We strip each other in clumsy, urgent movements, laughing breathlessly when fingers tangle or fabric sticks. By the time I’m bare and perched above him, my entire body is burning.
His hands slide over my hips, my thighs, reverent and possessive all at once.
