I cross the distance between us in two strides.
My hands cup her face, tilting her mouth up to meet mine. The kiss isn’t gentle—can’t be, not with days of hunger burning in my gut. I pour everything into it: the longing, the restraint, the desperate ache that’s been clawing at me since the moment I first scented her.
She kisses me back with equal intensity. Her fingers fist in my shirt, dragging me closer. Her body presses against mine, all soft curves and defiant angles, and the contact sends fire racing through my veins.
MATE. My dragon roars triumph. OUR MATE. FINALLY.
I lift her without breaking the kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and I carry her toward the bed, mouth never leaving hers. When I lay her on the sheets, she pulls me with her, unwilling to let go.
“Wait.” The word costs me. “Wait.”
She freezes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I brace myself above her, arms trembling with the effort of holding back. “I just have to know—what do you crave? What are you ready for?”
Understanding softens her expression. “You mean the claiming.”
“I mean everything.” I press my forehead to hers. “This doesn’t have to be all or nothing. We can go slow. We can stop whenever you say. I’m not expecting anything. I just want you.”
Her hand comes up to cup my jaw. Her thumb moves across my cheekbone, my scar, the corner of my mouth.
“I want this.” Her tone is steady. Clear. “I want you. Tonight.” She pauses. “Not the claiming. Not yet. But this... I ache for this.”
Relief floods through me. Not because she’s saying yes—though god, yes—but because she’s telling me what she actually wants. Setting boundaries.
Communicating.
Deciding.
“Rurik—“
“I’ve waited so long.” My thumb skims her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I can wait another few minutes to do this right.”
Her laugh is shaky. Surprised. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” I press a kiss to her temple. Her cheek. The tip of her nose. “Tell me what you ache for.”
“You.” Simple. Certain. “Just you.”
I lower her back against the pillows and let myself fall.
AISLING
For once, I stop planning.
The part of my brain that organizes and categorizes—that part goes quiet. There’s only this. Only him. Only the impossible warmth of his body covering mine, his mouth blazing paths across my skin.
“Beautiful.” He murmurs the word against my collarbone. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I should argue. Should cut through the moment with sarcasm. But his hands are sliding beneath my shirt, palms rough and warm, and I can’t remember how to form words.
He pauses at the hem. Waits.
“Yes.” Breathless. Aching. “Please.”
The shirt disappears. His follows. And then there’s skin against skin, his body pressed to mine, and I understand for the first time what it means to burn.
His mouth finds my breast, and I arch off the bed.
