Page 37 of The First Child
He pulls me to my feet, and suddenly we’re standing so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His naturally cool body temperature runs warm now, flushed with desire.
“I’m scared too,” he admits. His thumb traces across my pulse point, and I shiver. “I’ve spent my entire life in control. But with you—” He shakes his head. “You unravel me.”
I reach up and touch his face, feeling the slight texture difference where his markings trace delicate patterns across his cheekbones. They pulse brighter under my fingertips.
“Then let’s be unraveled together.”
The last word is lost against his mouth as he kisses me.
This isn’t the tender, reverent kiss from the other night. This is months of suppressed hunger exploding between us. His hands fist in my hair, and I press myself against him, desperate to get closer. His lips are soft but demanding, and when I open for him, he tastes like spiced tea and something uniquely alien—something that makes my head spin.
My shirt hits the floor, and I don’t remember him removing it. His follows, and I run my hands over the expanse of his chest, marveling at the way his markings trace intricate patterns across his pale skin. They’re glowing brighter now, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
“Beautiful,” I breathe, tracing one of the glowing lines with my finger.
He shudders under my touch. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I can feel what I do to him. The hard length of him pressing against my hip tells me exactly how much he wants this. Wants me.
His hands span my waist, lift me easily onto the kitchen counter. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, and we both groan at the contact.
“Too many clothes,” I gasp against his neck.
“Far too many.”
The rest of our clothing disappears in a frenzy of desperate hands and breathless kisses. When his fingers find the clasp of my bra, his hands are shaking.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his forehead pressed against mine. “Because once we do this?—”
“Once we do this, what?” I challenge, nipping at his lower lip. “You’ll want me even more? Because I don’t think that’s possible.”
A laugh rumbles through his chest. “You have no idea.”
He kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands map my body like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar. When his thumbs brush across my nipples, I arch into him with a soft cry.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my throat. “So perfect.”
His mouth follows the path his hands have traced, and when he takes one sensitive peak between his lips, the sensation shootsstraight through me. I dig my fingers into his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath his alien skin.
“Sylas,” I gasp. “Please.”
“Please what?” His silver eyes are molten when he looks up at me. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I breathe. “All of you. Now.”
Something snaps in his control. His markings flare brilliant white-blue, and suddenly I can feel what he’s feeling—the desperate hunger, the overwhelming need, the ache of months of wanting. The empathic connection hits me like a physical blow, doubling the intensity of every sensation.
“Oh god,” I moan, my head falling back. “I can feel?—”
“My control is slipping,” he admits, his voice strained. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t you dare stop.” I pull his mouth back to mine. “I want to feel everything.”
The feedback loop of shared sensation makes every touch electric. When he slides his fingers between my legs, I feel his amazement at how ready I am for him, and my own pleasure reflected back through his mind. It’s overwhelming and perfect and not nearly enough.
“I need you inside me,” I whisper against his ear. “Now.”
He lifts me from the counter, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch. The Christmas lights cast shifting shadows across our skin as he lays me down among the cushions.
