Hell, he may have invented the second category.
He's slow. That's the part that ruins me. He's slow and thorough, completely unhurried, like we have a hundred years and a snowed-in mountain and nowhere to be, which—technically—we do. His hands hold my hips down when they try to rise off the mattress.
And his mouthlearnsme. There's no other word for it. He finds what makes me gasp and then he stays there, patient, relentless, until gasping isn't a strong enough word for what I'm doing.
"Afon—" I get a fist in his hair. It's the only handhold available. "Afon, oh my God?—"
He hums against me. The vibration nearly ends me on the spot.
"You're—I can't?—"
He pulls back an inch. "Do you want me to stop?"
"If you stop, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
"Hm. Objection sustained."
Then he adds two fingers as he sucks my clit in between his bearded lips, and I lose it.
I come apart on a narrow iron bed in a stone hut on a frozen mountain, with both hands in the hair of a man a decade-plus older than me who kills people, or used to, or might again. As I orgasm, I say his name loud enough that it bounces off the walls around us.
He doesn't stop. He carries me through it, gentling by degrees, until my whole body goes squiggly and my hands fall out of his hair and I'm just lying there, staring at the ceiling, vibrating.
"Oh. My. God," I announce to the roof.
He kisses the inside of my thigh once more and lifts his head. Even in the dark, I can see the satisfaction on his face. The man looks like he just won a war.
"Was that okay?" he asks.
"I have no bones. You stole them."
"Ah, bones are overrated. You'll grow new ones."
"Come here, please," I whine.
He crawls up the bed. When he's within reach, I grab him and kiss him, deep. I can taste myself on his mouth and I don't even care. It might actually be the best kiss of my life.
His weight settles half over me. It's perfect, exactly the right weight and size, everything I've ever needed to heal me.
That's when I make my move. My hand goes for his waistband.
He catches my wrist. "Caroline."
"Let me?—"
"No."
"That's not fair!" I protest. "You can't just dothatto a person and then declare the evening concluded."
"I can and I am."
"Afon." I push up on one elbow. "I want you. Right now. All of you. I am begging. Do you understand?"
It hurts to watch the turmoil on his face. He wants to; I know he wants to. I can feel exactly how much he wants to, pressed against my hip.
"Please," I whisper.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
