“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know enough.”
He made a sound that was half groan, half laugh—a sound of surrender. His hands slid beneath her shirt, warm and rough against her bare skin, and she arched into his touch like a flower turning towards the sun.
The white room with its medical equipment felt impossibly far away. There was only this—only his hands and his mouth and the desperate need building inside her like a wave about to crest.
“Not here,” he said. “Not in this place.”
She didn’t argue. He was already moving, carrying her up through the maintenance shaft with a strength that should have been impossible, straight to their bedroom.
The room was warm and golden with morning light. He laid her on the bed with surprising gentleness, then hovered over her, his eyes searching her face.
“Tell me to stop,” he said. “At any point. Any moment. Just say the word and I will.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“You’ve never done this before.”
“I know.” She reached up to trace the scar that ran along his cheekbone. “I’ve never done any of this before. But I trust you. I want this. I want you.”
Something flickered in his gaze—desire warring with protectiveness, need battling restraint. She watched him fight the battle, watched him try to find reasons to pull away.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t make me beg.”
He kissed her again, softer this time but no less intense. His hands resumed their exploration of her body—her waist, her ribs, the curve of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her gown. Every touch sent sparks racing through her nerves.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured against her collarbone. “So sensitive.”
“Is that... normal?”
“Nothing about you is normal.” He nipped at her skin, and she gasped. “Everything about you is perfect.”
He helped her out of her gown, and for a moment she felt exposed—vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the recordings or the lies or the cage she’d been trapped in her wholelife. But when he looked at her, his expression made her feel like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Liora,” he breathed. “You’re?—”
“Please don’t stop touching me.”
He didn’t.
His mouth traced patterns across her skin—her collarbones, the valley between her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach. Lower. Lower still.
The first touch of his mouth against her core made her cry out.
She’d read about this in the books about human reproduction and intimacy, about the mechanics of physical release. She’d thought she understood.
She understood nothing.
This was beyond description. His tongue moving against her with a certainty that made her writhe. His hands pinning her hips when she tried to arch away from the overwhelming intensity. His low, rumbling growl of satisfaction when she called out his name.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her flesh. “Let go.”
“I can’t—it’s too much?—”
“You can. Trust me.”
She did. She trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone, and so when he resumed his ministrations—more insistent now, more demanding—she stopped fighting the wave that was building inside her.
