The words left her mouth before she could think better of them. Hanging in the air like a challenge, or a confession, or a prayer.
Ralvar went completely still.
"Delia."
His voice had dropped. Rougher now, the growl underneath closer to the surface. His fingers tightened around hers.
"You should be very sure about what you're asking."
"I'm not sure about anything." The honesty came out raw and unfiltered. "I've never been sure about anything. But I know that—" She looked at their joined hands, at the size difference, at the way his thumb was still tracing that slow circle on her palm. "I know I don't want you to stop touching me."
A sound escaped his throat. His free hand came up to cup her face, and she felt herself lean into it without meaning to. Hispalm was warm against her cheek. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tracing the dark circles she knew must be there.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he said. "Unless you tell me not to."
She didn't tell him not to.
He leaned down.
Their mouths met.
It was softer than she'd expected. Gentler. His lips brushed against hers like a question, testing, tasting, not demanding anything. She felt the press of his tusks at the corners of her mouth—strange and foreign and thrilling—and her breath hitched against his lips.
He pulled back slightly. Just enough to look at her.
"Okay?"
She answered by fisting her free hand in the front of his tunic and pulling him back down.
His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her face to a better angle. His mouth opened against hers and she tasted woodsmoke and rabbit and the salt-musk taste of his skin, rich and foreign and intoxicating.
He made that sound again, the growl-groan that vibrated through his chest and into hers.
"Delia," he breathed against her mouth. "We should—"
"Don't stop."
"I don't want to—"
"Then don't." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Don't stop."
The last threads of his restraint frayed and snapped.
He kissed her again. Harder this time. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt herself lifted, moved, resettled until she was somehow in his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands braced against the massive wall of his chest.
She should have felt ridiculous. Should have felt heavy, too much, too big to be held like this.
She didn't.
She felt devoured. Claimed. Wanted in a way no one had ever wanted her before.
And for the first time in twenty-three years, Delia let herself want back.
Chapter 9
Ralvar was burning alive.
Her mouth was soft against his and the taste of her was flooding his senses. His hands spread across her back, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of his tunic.
