Through our connection, I feel her appreciation—the aesthetic pleasure of looking at someone she finds attractive, the building heat as she takes in every ridge of muscle, every line and plane. No calculation in it, no assessment of threat. Just pure feminine desire.
It's intoxicating.
"Gods," she whispers.
I can't help the smirk that pulls at my mouth. "Like what you see?"
"You know I do." Her hands reach up, tracing over my chest tentatively. Her touch sends electricity through every nerve ending. Through the connection, I feel her wonder at being allowed to touch like this, at having the freedom to explore without fear of punishment.
I catch her wrist gently, bringing her palm to my mouth. I press a kiss to it, then to her inner wrist, holding her gaze. "I'll give you anything you want. Everything. Just say the word."
Her pupils dilate. Her breathing quickens. "Then let me see you. All of you."
I release her wrist, settling back. "Take off your clothes first."
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face, bleeding through the connection. Old fear—of being exposed, vulnerable, judged for the damage done to her body.
"I want to see you," I say softly. "Every part of you. Every scar, every mark, every perfect inch. Let me see what I've been dying to worship."
She sits up slowly, firelight dancing across her features. Her hands move to the hem of her wet tunic. She pulls it over her head in one smooth motion, and my mouth goes dry.
Her breasts are perfect—not large, but beautifully shaped, nipples already hard from cold and arousal. Her torso is lean, defined from years of hard survival, every line and curve a testament to her strength. Old scars mark her ribs, her sides, pale lines against golden-olive skin.
She stands to push down her leathers and smallclothes together, stepping out of them with careful grace. Completely bare in the firelight, watching my face with wary uncertainty.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The scars don't detract from that beauty—they enhance it. Every mark is proof she survived, proof she refused to break. Her body tells a story of resilience and strength, and I want to trace every chapter with my mouth until she understands how extraordinary she is.
"Fucking gorgeous," I breathe. "Perfect."
Through the connection, I feel her disbelief war with desperate hope. Part of her can't accept the compliment, can't believe I see her as anything but damaged. But another part—the part that's starting to trust—wants so badly to believe me.
I'll make her believe. I'll prove it with every touch, every kiss, every moment I spend showing her what worship looks like.
I move toward her, hands skimming up her thighs, her hips, her waist. She shivers under my touch, eyes closing briefly. I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper—pouring everything I feelthrough the connection. The awe, the desire, the bone-deep need to make her feel cherished.
She melts against me, hands sliding over my shoulders and back, exploring muscle and skin with increasing confidence.
I lower her back to the warm stone floor, settling between her spread thighs. She tenses slightly, old instinct, but I kiss down her neck and chest, taking my time. Worshiping every inch of skin I can reach, learning the taste of her, the sounds she makes when I find sensitive spots.
I circle one nipple with my tongue and she arches up with a gasp. I take it into my mouth, sucking gently, and her hands fly to my hair. Through the connection, I feel her surprise at the pleasure—like she never knew it could feel like this, that her body could respond with such intensity to gentle attention.
I lavish the same care on her other breast, taking my time, refusing to rush. Her hips are rolling restlessly beneath me, seeking friction she's not quite aware of needing yet.
I kiss down her stomach, over each scar with reverent attention. Showing her without words that every mark makes her more beautiful to me, not less. Her breathing is ragged, her hands tangling and releasing in my hair.
When I settle between her thighs fully, pressing them wider, she tenses. Old fear spikes through the connection.
"Rakk, what?—"
"Just pleasure," I murmur against her inner thigh. "Nothing else. I promise. Trust me?"
A pause. Then: "Yes."
I kiss up her thigh slowly, letting her adjust to the sensation, to the vulnerability of this position. When I finally reach her center, I can smell her arousal—sweet and intoxicating. I press a kiss to her folds and she jerks.
"Oh gods?—"
