Page 41 of Burned Alive to Be His
I sit beside him, gently dabbing a cool, damp cloth on his feverish brow. He watches me, his eyes dark and intense in the soft, magical light of the cavern. The silence between us is no longer a weapon. It is a space of comfort, of a deep, unspoken understanding.
“You should rest,” I say softly.
“I cannot,” he rasps, his good hand coming up to capture mine. He brings my hand to his lips, his mouth hot against my knuckles. “My mind is… loud.”
“What is it thinking?” I ask.
“Of you,” he says, voice a rough growl. “Of the promises I made to you in the darkness, when I thought I was dying. Of the promises I intend to keep.”
He pulls me down onto the furs beside him, his arm wrapping around my waist, drawing me close. He is so warm, so solid, a mountain of heat and strength. “I will not hurt you again, Judith,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion I can’t name. “Never again.”
“I know,” I say, and the truth of it settles deep in my bones.
He kisses me, a slow, deep, searching kiss that is filled with all the things he cannot say. It is one of apology, of reverence, of a desperate, hungry need. And I kiss him back with all the pent-up hope and fear and a dawning, terrifying love that has taken root in my soul.
The kiss deepens, the gentle exploration giving way to a raw, desperate hunger. His hand slides from my waist, up my side, his thumb stroking the curve of my breast through the thick tunic.A jolt of pure, liquid fire shoots through me, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “Is this…?”
“Yes,” I breathe, cutting him off. “Yes, please.”
The word is a key, a permission he has been desperately waiting for. With a low groan, he rolls, his powerful body covering mine, his weight a comforting, possessive presence. He is careful of his injuries, his movements deliberate, but there is no mistaking the raw, primal need that radiates from him.
“I need you, Judith,” he rasps, his mouth moving to my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Like I need the fire in the mountain’s heart. Like I need the air in my lungs.”
“Then take me,” I whisper, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Make me yours. Truly yours.”
He needs no further encouragement. His hands are on my clothes, not tearing this time, but removing them with a reverent, almost painful slowness. He peels away the layers, his eyes devouring every inch of skin he reveals. He kisses my shoulders, my collarbone, the scars on my arms. He does not treat them as imperfections. He treats them as a part of me, as a map of the battles I have survived.
When I am naked before him, he simply looks at me, eyes blazing with a fire that is hotter than any volcano. “You are beautiful,” he says, the words a raw, broken whisper.
“So are you,” I reply, and I reach for the laces of his breeches.
He helps me, his hands trembling slightly. When he is free, he is magnificent, a creature of pure, masculine power. He is thick, and long, and impossibly hard. But this time, I feel no fear. Only a deep, aching, desperate need.
“I want to feel you,” I say, voice sounding like a husky plea. “All of you.”
He comes down over me, his body a searing brand against mine. But he does not enter me. Not yet. He kisses me, a long,slow, soul-deep kiss, while his hand slides down between my legs. He finds my slick, wet heat, and a low, triumphant groan rumbles in his chest.
“You are ready for me,” he whispers against my lips.
“I have been ready for you my entire life,” I reply, the words a truth that comes from a place deeper than thought.
His fingers slide inside me, and I cry out, my back arching off the furs. He is so skilled, his touch both gentle and demanding, a perfect, exquisite torture. He strokes me, he circles me, he teases me, his name a constant, desperate plea on my lips.
“Please, Xvitar,” I sob, my body coiling, tightening, my release a shimmering, imminent thing. “Please, I need you inside me.”
“Say it,” he commands, his voice a rough, guttural rasp. “Say you want to be my mate.”
“I want to be your mate,” I cry out, the words a surrender, a declaration, a prayer. “I want to be yours. Now, Xvitar. Please. Fuck me. Hard.”
With a savage roar, he positions himself at my entrance and drives into me with a single, powerful thrust. He fills me completely, a searing, stretching, perfect invasion that tears a scream of pure, ecstatic pleasure from my throat. He is home. He is my home.
He begins to move, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that is completely different than the frantic, desperate energy of our first joining. This is not a claiming. This is a worship. His eyes are locked on mine, and in their violet depths, I see my own reflection. I see not a slave, not a survivor, but a queen. His queen.
“Faster,” I beg, my nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back. “Harder.”
He obeys, his rhythm becoming a savage, frantic pounding that matches the beat of my own heart. The cavern is filled withthe echo of our bodies colliding, of my breathless moans and his guttural groans.
