Page 19 of Beneath the Desert Bloom (Of Beasts and Bloom #1)

THE SILENCE HAD lasted three days.

It wasn’t regular silence, like the kind you fill with podcasts and cleaning playlists and pretending the dishwasher hum is meditative.

It was a deeper, weighted stillness. The kind that settled in her bones and made the floor creak wrong.

The kind that turned the wind into something she listened to like a whisper.

She hadn’t seen him anywhere. Not in the dream space. Not in the desert. Not in the corner of her vision like she half-expected every time she walked past a window.

He was gone. And it was driving her fucking insane.

Not because she missed the drama of it all, the cryptic silence or the scorching heat that rose in her belly when he appeared like a summoned god. But because she missed him . And that felt worse than anything.

She had tried everything to distract herself.

Cleaning. Reading. Rearranging the kitchen drawers until she’d found the weird little knife her grandfather always used to open mail and left it sitting blade-up on the counter like a warning.

She’d even tried writing.

That had gone great. She got one whole page of scribbles in her journal that devolved into:

What do you want from me what do you want from me what do you want—

She’d ripped that page out and burned it in the sink.

The house didn’t care.

Neither did the stone on the table.

It had gone dull. Cold. Dead weight in her palm, like a phone you keep checking for messages you know aren’t coming.

But that morning, something finally shifted.

She’d whispered his name in her sleep.

Not like a plea. Like a truth.

The kind that echoes louder than a scream.

It was early. The light was slanted and pale, barely bright enough to give shape to the ridges outside.

Nora sat cross-legged on the porch with a mug of coffee cooling in her hand and sweat already clinging to the back of her neck.

Her nightshirt stuck to her thighs. She hadn’t really slept.

Just drifted, skin crawling with a feeling she couldn’t shake.

She stared out at the desert, eyes unfocused.

Then the wind shifted.

She set her mug down, standing slowly.

The stone on the table pulsed once.

And she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

She stood barefoot in the doorway and let the moment stretch.

The wind moved again. Her hair fluttered back from her neck. Goosebumps lifted along her arms.

Something behind her shifted. A breath. Slow. Intentional. She turned. He was inside.

No flash of light. No crumbling wall. No mystic flare of sand spiraling into form.

He was just there.

In the house. In the fucking hallway, like he’d walked in and never left.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But the silence broke anyway.

She stepped back.

He stepped forward.

One pace. Measured. Heavy.

He looked… different.

Not smaller. Not softer. Still vast. Still shadow-wrapped. Still other.

But something in his face was changed.

Like absence had carved lines into him that hadn’t been there before. Like he’d missed her.

And that thought, that this creature made of ancient bark and hunger had been out there somewhere missing her, made something hot and stupid bloom in her throat.

She held her breath.

His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm. Bare. Lined with something like old scars or lightning. His shoulders were broad enough to shadow the walls. His skin caught the light like sun-baked stone, ridged, bark-like, the texture impossibly alien and so goddamn beautiful.

Of course. Of course you’re about to jump a tree demon. This is your life now, apparently.

She didn’t flinch. She just wanted him.

His glowing, mournful, impossible eyes never left her face. He was waiting.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

And then he said it.

Her name.

Soft. Cracked.

Real.

“Nora.”

He said her name, and the sound broke something open in the air.

He didn’t say it loudly, or forcefully. It was soft, like a memory spoken aloud for the first time in years, and yet it struck her like thunder. The syllables were weighted with recognition.

Nora.

She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d heard her name said like that. Like it meant something. Not barked in irritation or mumbled in passing. But spoken like a truth.

She couldn’t answer.

Her tongue was heavy behind her teeth, her breath shallow in her lungs. Every inch of her skin felt stretched, vibrating just beneath the surface, like she was the storm front and he was the pressure system moving in.

His gaze stayed fixed on her, golden eyes catching the weak light of morning, their depth unreadable but full. He looked at her like someone who’d studied her before time, someone who already knew the shape of her breath and the rhythm of her blood.

And she just stood there. Barefoot. Sleepless. Still in the nightshirt she hadn’t changed out of in days. No mascara, no armor, no clever quip in her mouth to make sense of the moment.

She wasn’t ready for this.

But she didn’t want to be ready.

She just wanted.

The distance between them felt unbearable.

Her feet moved first. Just a shift in weight.

One toe nudging across the floor like she needed to confirm it was still solid beneath her.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She was aware of everything: the air cooling against the back of her knees, the uneven grain of the floorboards under her heels, the burn of her own heartbeat against her ribs.

He watched her move, letting her come to him. Letting her choose.

She could have left, could’ve turned and sprinted into the heat and let the desert sand chew her soles to ribbons.

But she didn’t.

She took a breath. Then another. Let it rattle in her throat and settle in her belly.

Then she stepped toward him.

Just one step.

But it cracked something open between them.

He inhaled, slow, deep, full, as if her motion had drawn breath into his body. Like he hadn’t breathed at all until she closed that inch of space.

She took another.

The humming started again. That low, magnetic pull that had always preceded him in dreams. But this wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t asleep. And the heat was real. And so was the ache beneath it.

Her hand lifted before she could stop it. She reached up slowly, like the air might resist her, and touched his cheek.

His skin was warm. Not fever-hot like in the dreams, but dense, radiant, like sun-warmed stone. The texture wasn’t smooth. It was like polished bark, or sanded obsidian. Tough and elegant, built by time and weather.

His eyes closed, just for a second. Just long enough for her to know he felt it.

She didn’t pull away.

Her thumb grazed the line of his cheekbone, her palm settling against the side of his face, and she tilted her head slightly, her breath catching when he leaned into it.

He made a sound then. Barely audible.

A breath, a groan, something like grief laced with awe. It vibrated through him like it hurt to hold back.

Her other hand rose, found the plane of his chest, wide, solid, still as stone, and rested there. His skin was ridged with old scars or runes, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. It was him. And he was here.

Her body was already wet. Already aching. And she knew he could feel it, smell it in the air, taste it in her breath.

“Touch me,” she whispered. “If you want to.”

His eyes opened and met hers.

And in that golden depth she saw something fracture. Not because he was uncertain, but because he couldn’t believe he’d been given permission.

He lifted his hand.

Large, reverent, slow.

His fingertips hovered just above her jaw, his palm trembling slightly.

And then—

He touched her.

His fingers brushed the curve of her neck, then her collarbone, touching her with a gentleness that made her knees go weak.

That hand. That heat.

It was him.

But not a dream.

She grabbed the hem of her nightshirt and pulled it over her head.

Tossed it aside like it had no relevance here.

Now she stood bare before him, skin kissed pink from the rising sun, nipples hardening under his gaze, stomach trembling.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t devour her.

Just saw her.

Every part.

And he reached out, both hands this time, and cupped her waist like she was something sacred.

She stepped closer, until their bodies met in the space between breath and burn.

And she tilted her head, slowly, achingly, until her mouth was just a breath away from his.

She waited.

And he closed the distance.

Their lips met with no rush. No violence. Just slow, unfolding gravity.

The kiss wasn’t sweet. It was full.

A beginning written in language older than sound.

The kiss unraveled her.

Not with hunger. Not with teeth or heat or desperation. But with something far more dangerous. Patience.

It was the kind of kiss that rewrote breath, that moved slowly enough to feel sacred.

Their mouths moved in unison, with the strange, aching sync of two people who had never done this and somehow still remembered how.

She felt the ridging on his tongue and shivered, remembering how he had used it before.

Nora’s fingers curled into his skin, his chest, his shoulders, his sides, and he let her. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back, didn’t try to take more than what she gave. He just breathed her in like she was air after too long underwater.

Her body pressed into his without hesitation now. The moment for doubt had passed somewhere between her nightshirt hitting the floor and her palm resting above the place where his heart should be. If he even had one. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that something beat there, and it echoed in her.

When she gasped into his mouth, his hands found her waist again, and one slid up the curve of her side, his fingers brushing the underside of her breast like he was testing the edge of a dream he wasn’t sure he’d earned.

She guided him higher.

He exhaled hard when she did.

Nora’s lips left his just long enough to breathe his name. Her forehead touched his. Their noses grazed.

“Touch me,” she whispered again. “Really.”

He made a low sound. Almost a growl, but not rough. It was full of something else. Restraint and worship and something cracked open.

His hand cradled her breast now, his thumb brushing lightly over her nipple, and she pressed into him. It wasn’t because she needed more, but because she needed exactly this. To be here. With him. With someone who didn’t try to own her but still saw all of her.

The contact set off a reaction deep inside her, low and slow and rising. Her back arched, her breath caught, and her hips tilted forward until her bare stomach brushed the ridges of his.

He made another sound, deeper this time, more shaken, and his arms wrapped around her fully, pulling her in.

Their skin met.

Chest to chest. Belly to belly.

Her thighs touched the curve of his, and god, the size of him.

He was hard already. But not moving. Just there.

Heavy. Wanting. Held back like a wave with nowhere to crash.

Nora let out a soft, startled breath that turned into a quiet laugh. She tilted her chin up, looked at him, and saw that he was trembling.

His eyes were half-closed. His jaw tight. His body vibrating like he was holding back the ocean with the palms of his hands.

“You don’t have to wait,” she said, voice low, teasing. But she meant it. “Not if I want it too.”

One of his hands slid down, slowly, reverently, and settled on the curve of her hip.

His lips brushed her ear.

“I’ll never take what isn’t given,” he said, voice low and broken.

“Then take this,” she whispered.

She reached between them and guided his hand lower, over her stomach, over her heat, until his palm was cupped against her.

He hissed in a breath like it hurt.

Her body was wet. Open. Ready.

And she could see it in his face when he realized just how much she wanted him.

“Show me,” she said, voice breathy. “I want to know what you feel like.”

He didn’t hesitate after that.

His hand moved slowly, one thick finger sliding through her heat. She gasped again, louder this time, and he kissed her again just to swallow the sound.

Another finger joined the first. Still slow. Still patient.

She rocked against his palm, not even pretending to be subtle. Her body was a drum, and every movement of his hand was a beat that brought her closer to unraveling.

When he curled his fingers just right, she moaned into his mouth and broke the kiss with a sharp breath.

He watched her face the whole time. Never looked away.

Like every twitch, every tremble, was a revelation.

Her own hands slid down his sides now, touching, learning, exploring. She wanted to know the shape of him. The temperature. The strength. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, then down to his neck, and heard him groan when she bit gently at the base.

His fingers didn’t stop.

But they slowed, letting her ride the edge.

“Lie down,” she said, voice thick.

He obeyed.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him. She could feel the full weight of him beneath her, thick and hard, pressing against the place she needed him most. But she didn’t move yet. She just sat there, hips barely shifting, feeling the tremble in his body.

He wasn’t touching her anymore.

But he was watching. Wrecked. Awe-struck.

And when she leaned forward and pressed her palm to his chest again, he let out a sound that broke her open from the inside.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

Because she wanted the first time to be everything.

But this?

This was worship.

And she wanted to feel every second of it.