Page 27 of Burned Alive to Be His
Then I kiss him.
It is not like the first time. There is no invasion, no brutal claiming. It is a soft, hesitant press of my lips against his. A question. An offering. For a heart-stopping moment, he is utterly still, and I think I have made a terrible mistake.
With a low groan that seems to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he answers.
His mouth softens against mine, and he kisses me back. It’s a kiss of raw, desperate hunger, of a thirst he has only just realized he has. His good arm comes up, his hand tangling in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue, forked and strange, slides into my mouth, and this time, I do not resist. I meet it with my own, a silent, willing duel.
The kiss is a fire, a conflagration that consumes all thought, all reason. It is the release of a tension that has been building between us for days, a tension forged in fear and defiance, in cruelty and a strange, reluctant care.
He breaks the kiss, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, the muscles in his jaw knotted tight.
“This is a madness,” he rasps.
“Yes,” I breathe, my own voice trembling.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, a wild, desperate light in their depths. “I hurt you.” It is not a question. It is a statement of fact, a confession.
“Yes,” I say again, my voice quiet but firm.
“And yet…” he begins, his gaze dropping to my mouth again.
“And yet,” I finish for him.
The air between us is thick, heavy with unspoken things. The memory of that first night is a ghost in the cavern, but it is no longer a barrier. It is a part of our story, a brutal, ugly chapter that has somehow, impossibly, led us to this.
My body, the traitor, is already responding. A slow, liquid heat is pooling in my belly, my nipples hardening against the soft fabric of my tunic. I want him. The realization is a shock, a terrifying, exhilarating thing. After everything he has done, after the fear, the humiliation… I want him. I want the heat of his skin, the strength of his body, the fire in his eyes.
He must see it in my face, in the way my breath hitches, in the way my pupils dilate. A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that is no longer just a threat, but a promise.
“You feel it too,” he whispers, his voice thick with a desire that mirrors my own.
I do not answer with words. I answer by leaning in and kissing him again, my hands sliding from his face to his broad, powerful shoulders. This kiss is deeper, hungrier, a mutual claiming. I am no longer merely a survivor. I am a participant. And I am choosing this.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing and settles me on his lap as he leans back against the pile of furs, his injured arm resting carefully at his side. I am facing him, my legs straddling his hips, a position of shocking intimacy.
“Tell me what you want, Judith,” he commands, his voice becoming a low, rough growl against my lips.
“You,” I breathe, the word a confession, a surrender, a demand. “I want you.”
The word is a key, unlocking the last of his restraint. His mouth becomes more demanding, his good hand sliding from my back down to my hip, his fingers digging in, holding me in place. He kisses me with a desperate, hungry passion, as if he is a starving man and I am his first meal.
My own hands are not idle. I explore the landscape of his body, my fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, the smooth, cool texture of his scales, the heat of his skin. I run my hand over the deep gashes on his side, and he groans, a sound of pain and pleasure entwined.
The sound is a spark, igniting the tinder of my own desire. I begin to move my hips, a slow, instinctive rhythm against his lap. I feel the thick, hard length of his cock pressing against me through the leather of his breeches, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shoots through me.
He groans again, his head falling back against the furs, his eyes closing. “By the Thirteen…” he rasps.
“Is this not what you wanted?” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “To have me beg?”
His eyes snap open, the violet depths blazing with a fire that takes my breath away. “Are you begging, little human?”
“Yes,” I say, the word a shameless, desperate truth. I press myself against his hardness, a broken moan escaping my lips. “Please, Xvitar. Don’t make me wait. Fuck me.”
The word, so raw, so vulgar, is the final blow to his control. With a savage snarl, he grabs the front of my tunic and rips it open, the sound a satisfying tear in the charged silence. My breasts, full and aching, spill free. He looks at them, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my entire body tremble.
He lowers his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, his tongue and teeth a torment of exquisite pleasure. I cry out, my back arching, my fingers tangling in his long, dark hair. He suckles me with a desperate, greedy intensity, his good hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches.
I help him, my own fingers clumsy with need. He is thick, and hot, and impossibly long. The sight of him, dark and powerful, sends another wave of liquid heat through me.
