Page 115

Or words.

Or bones.

His tongue moves slowly at first, then harder when I arch into him. He learns me with the same ruthless attention he gives everything else, except now that attention is focused on my body, and I am not built to survive this. His hand cups my other breast, thumb dragging over my nipple until pleasure sparks low in my belly.

I grab his hair with my good hand.

He groans.

The sound vibrates through me.

Through the bond.

Goddess, the bond.

It opens wider with every touch, every breath, every little sound he pulls out of me. I can feel him. Not his thoughts exactly, but the shape of him. His hunger. His restraint. The sharp edge of his need where he’s holding himself back because I’m hurt and because he is Nash and because he would rather suffer than take more than I offer.

I hate him a little for being this good.

And by that, I mean, I love him more for it.

His mouth moves lower, kissing over my ribs, my stomach, the soft skin above the waistband of my leggings.

I tense before I can stop myself.

He stills instantly.

“Don’t stop,” I say.

“I wasn’t stopping.” His mouth brushes my hip. “I was listening.”

“That is extremely inconvenient.”

“Mm.” He hooks his fingers into my waistband. “I’ve been told that about myself.”

He looks up at me, waiting.

I lift my hips.

That’s all the answer he needs.

He peels my leggings down slowly, taking my underwear with them, and tosses both somewhere into the dark. Then he’s between my thighs, broad shoulders spreading me open, and every clever thought I’ve ever had leaves the building.

“Nash.”

His hands slide under my thighs. “I’ve got you.”

I believe him.

That is the most terrifying part.

I believe him when he says it. I believe the hands holding me open will never become a trap. I believe the mouth kissing the inside of my thigh will never use my wanting against me. I believe this male could destroy me and won’t.

Not because he can’t.

Because he chooses not to.

His mouth finds me.