“Fair?” I press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I’m not interested in fair. I’m interested in knowing you.”
I release her wrists. Strip off my own shirt. Let her look at me the way I’ve been looking at her—scars, muscle, the evidence of lifetimes of violence written in my flesh.
Her hands come up immediately, spreading across my torso. Tracing the old marks. Learning the geography of wounds.
“Some of these are old.”
“Most.” I cover her hands with mine, press them harder against my skin. “I don’t scar easily anymore. The oldest ones were earned before I learned to be faster than the things trying to kill me.”
“And the new ones?”
There aren’t many. The fight with the executioner left marks, but my body is already healing them. In a few weeks, they’ll fade to nothing.
“You were there for those.”
Her fingers trace a line across my ribs where a blow landed hard enough to crack bone. “Does it still hurt?”
“No.” I catch her hand, bring it to my mouth, press a kiss to her palm. “Nothing hurts when you’re touching me.”
More honest than I meant to be. More vulnerable. But the words are out, and I can’t take them back.
She doesn’t mock me for it. Doesn’t look uncomfortable. Her expression says she understands.
“Lie down.” I nod toward the bed.
She does. Spreads out on the mattress that was never meant for anyone but me, her dark hair fanning across the pillow. Waiting.
I’ve never seen anything I wanted more.
I lower myself over her slowly. Not rushing. Savoring. The firelight catches her skin, paints her in gold and shadow.
“You’re beautiful.” The words come out rougher than intended. “I don’t say that. Don’t have the language for it. But you are, and I need you to know.”
“Tyr—”
“Let me.” I press a kiss to her forehead. Her temple. The corner of her eye. “Let me show you.”
I work my way down her body with studied patience. Learning every reaction. Mapping every response. She gasps when I kiss the sensitive spot below her ear. Moans when I trace my tongue along her collarbone. Arches off the bed when I take her nipple in my mouth.
I file away each discovery. Build a map of her pleasure that I’ll spend decades expanding.
“Please—” Her hands grip my shoulders. “I need?—”
“What you need.” I continue my slow exploration, kissing down her ribs. Her stomach. The jut of her hipbone. “And you’ll have it. When I’m ready.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes.” I settle between her thighs, hook her legs over my shoulders. “But I’m your bastard.”
I taste her the way I’ve wanted to since the first time I caught her scent—thoroughly, possessively, with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. She tries to rush me, rocks her hips, threads her fingers through my hair and pulls.
I don’t let her set the pace. Keep my strokes slow. Deliberate. Building her up and easing back before she can crest.
“Tyr—” Her voice breaks. “I can’t?—”
“You can.” I slide two fingers inside her, curl them forward. “You will.”
I work her with my mouth and my hand until she’s shaking, until she’s begging, until my name is the only word she can remember. Then, finally, I give her permission.
