The words hung between them, bold and reckless. The kind of words she never would have spoken before last night. Before him.
Ralvar's expression shifted. The hunger was still there, but tenderness joined it. Wonder, almost reverent.
"If we do this," he said quietly, "we do it properly. You understand?"
"What does properly mean?"
"It means—" He released her hip with one hand and brought it up to brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was impossibly gentle for hands so large. "It means I worship you. Every inch. Until you understand what I see when I look at you."
Her heart stuttered. "Ralvar—"
"Lie back."
She hesitated for only a moment before shifting off him, settling back against the furs, her injured ankle carefully extended.
He rose over her like a mountain, massive and imposing. Blocking out the dim morning light until all she could see was him. Deep green skin stretched over rippling muscle, amber eyes and tusks that should have terrified her but instead made her blood run hot with a forbidden thrill.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he said. "At any point. For any reason. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Words, Delia."
"I understand."
"Good."
He found the hem of the tunic she was wearing and he drew the fabric up slowly. Inch by inch, exposing her thighs, her hips, her stomach. The cool air hit her skin and she shivered, from cold or anticipation, she couldn't tell anymore.
He stopped when the tunic reached just below her breasts.
And then he looked at her.
Delia fought the urge to cover herself. Her hands twitched toward her belly. Every instinct she'd developed over twenty-three years of beingtoo muchscreamed at her to hide.
But Ralvar was staring at her like she was a revelation.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
She felt herself flush. "You don't have to—"
"I am not saying what I have to say." His hand hovered over her stomach without touching. "I am saying what is true. You are beautiful. Every part of you."
His palm finally made contact, and Delia's breath left her in a rush.
His hand was so large. It spanned nearly the entire width of her belly, warm and rough against her skin. He didn't squeeze or grip or do anything that might suggest her softness displeased him. He simply... touched. Explored. Let his fingers trace the curves of her with something like wonder.
"Here," he murmured, palm sliding to her hip. "This is abundance. Strength. A body that endures."
He traced her waist, found the dip there, followed it up toward her ribs.
"Here. Softness that warriors would kill to protect."
His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through the bunched fabric, and Delia gasped, but he didn't stop. He drew the tunic over her head and tossed it aside, and she was bare before him.
For one terrible moment, she waited for the disgust. The dismissal. The moment when he would see all of her and realize that the stories he'd been told about orc preferences were wrong, that she was too much, too soft, too—
"Blessed," Ralvar said hoarsely.
